


Under the Upper Hand

by philosophiesofacritic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Rape, Rape Recovery, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philosophiesofacritic/pseuds/philosophiesofacritic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 17, Sherlock is not where he imagined he'd be. He lives as a slave to Jim, alone and constantly looking over his shoulder. But when Sherlock meets a young medic returned from Afghanistan who is hard set to help him both of their lives take turns neither anticipate.</p><p>Trigger Warning: Rape, Sexual abuse, PTSD, Child abuse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock grimaced at his reflection in the mirror as he gently prodded at the swollen and darkening flesh around his left eye. His gaze drifted down his naked reflection pausing, only briefly, to acknowledge the bruises forming across his arms and the two raw marks on his wrists. He turned slowly to examine the damage done to his back. It was clear of bruising, but snaking red scratches stretched across his shoulders. He wasn’t sore yet. But he knew he would be. And soon. Sherlock could already feel the familiar stinging arriving in his backside and he suddenly had a very desperate urge to vomit.  
He flung himself headfirst into the toilet, his hairline dipping a bit into the still water, and he released the contents of his stomach, a few mints, and a pastry he’d managed to nick from the bakery round the corner that morning. His head reeled as he inhaled the smell of his own vomit and continued to dry heave. The aching in his backside seemed to intensify. Sherlock could feel wetness against his cheeks and he groaned in a mixture of pain, frustration, and shame. Tears, he quickly thought to himself, were a useless display made by those without power. Like himself, he added at the end.  
“Are you alright in there, pet?”  
That voice made Sherlock’s stomach churn all over again. He groaned again, pushing himself up off the floor, wincing. “Fine.”  
He gathered himself a bit before pushing the door open and strolling back into the bedroom, without so much as a cringe at the pain in his bottom. Jim smiled at him and it made Sherlock’s skin jump. Their client was gone he noted glancing around the room briefly, only his soreness and the smell of blood and sex to remind him of his previous engagement. Sherlock’s fingers began to twitch and fidget. God, he needed a fix. The cocaine always helped him relax, helped him forget, fractionally, about his pathetic, useless life.  
“Clean yourself up, my little pet,” Jim said, his chagrin in his voice. He slapped a wet cloth against Sherlock’s bare chest. It was warm, and the feeling was a sort of comfort that Sherlock wasn’t really accustomed to and it scared him. Jim’s black tailored suit crinkled as he moved about the room, picking up a blanket from the floor and tossing that to Sherlock as well, who caught is but immediately wished he hadn’t. It smelled like the client. Sherlock spotted a stain near the bottom of the old ratty piece of comforter: his own blood. He dropped it, more like threw the blanket to the floor glared down at it, as if it was the cause of all of this. The reason why he was stuck in this hell, slowly dying day in and day out as Jim, the bastard, sold his own body out to strangers in exchange for notes and drugs.  
A sudden hand on the small of his back made Sherlock cringe. Jim’s cold fingers moved up and down his spine in what would have been a soothing motion had it been anyone else. “I’m sorry the bad man hurt you, pet.”  
His voice made Sherlock want to crawl into a dark hole. The hand moving against his bare skin made him want to scream and for tears to roll endlessly down his cheeks. He’d never experienced true hatred before, but he would have imagined this is what it was like. The fear and the rage and the dependency all rolled into one. It made him sick. Every day he spent in Jim’s hold he grew more disgusted with himself, closer to emptiness.  
“Once you cleaned up and no longer look like a whore you can get your fix.” Jim straightened his lapels for a moment before sending Sherlock a grin and leaving the room. His footsteps faded slowly down the stairwell outside the room and Sherlock began counting. He made it to thirty two before his throat swelled and hot angry tears began to blur his vision.  
He’d made it to forty, last time.  
“Okay, Mr. Liles, I’m going to need you to sit down,” John said with a resigned half sigh, gripping a tongue depressor in his fingers and hoping he wouldn’t end up snapping it. Said Mr. Liles glared down at John, his wrinkled face suddenly gathering even more creases and stubbornly widening his stance.  
“Oi, you, listen here. ‘M not sick. I’m jus a little tired.”  
John straightened a bit, his white coat swishing a bit with his movements. Christ he hated clinic. He brought his fingers to rub the bridge of his nose and chanced a look at Mrs. Liles whose plumb frame was sitting on a small stool in the far corner of the room. She was clutching her small pink handbag a bit too tightly, her knuckles white and her face red. “Charlie, you sit there and listen to the doctor, you useless man. ‘M so sorry, Doctor Watson, Charlie can be such a child sometimes.”  
The last bit she emphasized with a pointed look at her husband before returning her eyes to John with a small apologetic smile. Her scolding seemed to have its intended effect, Mr. Liles huffed but sat back on the table all the same. John shifted a bit, his leg giving him a twinge of discomforted, before finally beginning his examination.  
“Watson!”  
John stiffened, his hands on Mr. Liles’s collarbone went cold. He exhaled loudly through his nose. It wasn’t real. He knew that voice and he knew it wasn’t real. He knew he was in Bart’s Hospital, not in some hell hole in the Middle East getting shot at. He was in London. He shook his head for a moment, trying really to shake the hallucination away. John’s fingers moved down Mr. Liles’s collarbone to his neck, his gloved hands pressing momentarily at the lymph nodes there.  
“Help!”  
John squeezed his eyes closed, trying to will away the voices. He lifted one hand to tug at a tuff of sandy hair and the other went to his throat that was suddenly very dry. Gunshots. Shrapnel. Sand grinding between his teeth, caking behind his eyelids and filling here ears. He stumbled back, his leg screaming, and reached out to blindly grab for his weapon. If his CO found him without it there’d be hell to pay.  
“Doctor Watson, listen to me,” two hands gripped either side of his face, pulling him head first out of the horror. The voice was soft, with hands equally so. She spoke again, firmer this time, and John recognized the voice, “John, it’s okay, we’re in Bart’s, remember? Yes? London.”  
Sarah?  
John cracked his eyes open to see her face, flushed and covered with panic. It was fake. All of it. He was in London, at Bart’s. Jesus, he’d just lost it in front of a patient. John’s head shot up and he looked over to Mr. and Mrs. Liles who were watching him wide eyed. They flinched when they met his eye contact. He could feel his ears and cheeks heating up. John breathed in deeply, trying to steady his thumbing heart, the smell of the room, alcohol and latex, was suddenly making his nose burn.  
“Please,” he mumbled, his voice a bit croaky, “excuse me.”  
He pushed his way past Sarah and out the door. He didn’t recall moving to stand outside but when he rubbed his eyes, fighting to keep those blasted tears from running down his face, he felt the chill of the November afternoon. The smell of his own sweat mixed with a faint scent of sewage from the ally in which he’d found himself only intensified his own embarrassment. He leaned his head back against the brick wall of the hospital and chocked back a sob.  
The hell was wrong with him? This was the third time in a month that he’d been plagued with flashbacks at work. It had been almost nine months since he’d left the Army, more like been rudely kicked out on his ass, he thought with a grim chuckle.  
“John!”  
He automatically cringed into himself at the sound of Sarah’s scolding. “Sarah,” John started, his voice a bit hoarse, but she held up a hand stopping him. Her eyes were some mixture of empathy and rage that made suddenly feel small and useless. And he hated it.  
“Just…don’t.” She was rigid. Her small, delicate arms folded harshly under her breasts. John allowed himself, just a moment, to remember how soft and pliant she’d been in his arms all those months ago. The way she felt around him and the flush of her cheeks and how the tint matched the color of her nipples so perfectly. Her warmth and softness. The memory was one he rather enjoyed. But that had been almost five months ago. Things were a bit different now.  
“John, I know it’s difficult for you,” she began. He could tell she was fighting to keep the venom out of her voice for his sake. “But it’s been a while now. I cannot have you putting your patients or coworkers at risk.” Sarah’s eyes, just as soft as her skin, shifted finally, planting themselves on the ground in front of her. “I think you should take some time off.”  
“No.” John almost whined. “No, Sarah, you know how much I need this. You know. I can’t…not work. You know.”  
“Your break will start immediately.” She turned back and moved to open the door but stopped short, “Please get help, or don’t bother coming back to work.” And she left him standing in the ally, the smell of filth the only company to John’s own shame.


	2. Chapter 2

It was too cold for Sherlock to be out today. Frost caked the sidewalk and streets and Sherlock shivered with a mixture of slight delight and from the chill itself. He pulled absentmindedly at the ends of his coat, tucking himself further into its warmth. The coat was one of the few things from Jim that Sherlock could actually stand to use, he found that it made him feel a bit…normal. Well, it made him feel as if he weren’t Jim’s prisoner.  
That thought made Sherlock frown a bit. He’d wandered to the park to try to relax just a bit, not to think about what waited for him back at Jim’s. He shook his head trying to banish thoughts of Jim, his curls moving this way and that.  
Across from him a mother was wrapping a small scarf around her son’s neck with a gentle smile. She was recently widowed, first holiday without the child’s father, it seemed. She worked as a primary school teacher. She hadn’t worked in a while, though. Sherlock’s head cocked a little to the side as he continued to watch her, no longer deducing, just watching. He reminded her greatly of his own mother and he let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. It had been four hundred eighty two days since he’d last heard his mother’s voice, last seen her face. Did he miss her? He honestly couldn’t tell. Sherlock tried not to think about his family, lest that ugly thing, sentiment, rear it head. But he was failing today.  
Four hundred eighty two days ago he’d waved goodbye to his mother. Four hundred eighty days ago he met Jim. And now here he was. His body covered in bruises and smelling of old dirty men. He supposed he could count himself lucky. He was Jim’s favorite, his own special toy. He was well taken care of in comparison, he supposed. At least he wasn’t treated like cattle, he was allowed to come and go almost as often as he pleased, given occasional “treats”, as Jim liked to call them. He was, if Sherlock was being honest, very very lucky. It occurred to Sherlock, not for the first time, that he’d never seen another…what did he call himself? A prisoner? A prostitute? He settled uncomfortably on ‘person’, feeling that the word couldn’t possibly encapsulate his situation.  
A smell caught his attention and his neck swerved to the left, his eyes landing on a small group of girls. One had a cigarette hanging daintily between her fore and middle fingers. Sherlock eyed it with desperate want. Jim didn’t like it when he smoked. He said it made him taste ‘even more worthless’. Sherlock stood from the bench and began moving toward the girls, wincing at the dull soreness all over his body. The girls were what could pass as pretty, Sherlock supposed. He smiled as best he could manage.  
“Hey.”  
The girls turned toward him, conversation stopped. The girl with the cig eyed Sherlock like a piece of meat. Sherlock had to keep from reacting to the pounds upon pounds of makeup she had smeared across her eye lids.  
“Hey,” she said. Sherlock had never heard the word ‘hey’ uttered so that it sounded like ‘please fuck me’. It made him chuckle, but he was quickly growing bored with this girl and her dim friend. “Got a cigarette to spare?”  
The girl smirked before sticking her own between her lipstick-covered lips and shuffling around in her purse. She held the cig up to Sherlock’s lips with a knowing smirk, he stifled down a groan of annoyance and bent to wrap his lips around it and drew himself back to full height. The girl grinned and Sherlock spotted a bit of her lipstick smeared across her teeth. “Needa light, luv?”  
“If you would be so kind, dear,” he whispered for only her to hear.  
She retrieved a lighter from her purse and leaned in close, keeping eye contact with Sherlock and lighting his cigarette. “You gotta name, luv?”  
“No.”  
Sherlock inhaled deeply, reveling in the sensation of the smoke filling him. “Just as well, we don’t have names neither,” she said motioning to her friend who Sherlock acknowledged with just a glance.  
“Either.”  
“Sorry?”  
“You meant to say ‘we don’t have names either’.” Sherlock puffed again on the cigarette before he turned to leave. To his surprise, he turned directly into a smaller, boarish looking man. Sherlock glanced down at him, a bit taken aback. He was short, the top of his head coming to Sherlock’s collarbones. About 20, low education level, lives with a parent, probably his mum, going on the aggressive. Probably romantically involved with one of the ladies Sherlock had just interacted with, based on the man’s scowl, he guessed the girl with lipstick on her teeth.  
“Oi!”  
Sherlock audibly groaned at this point. He could only deal with so much stupid in one setting. He stepped around him easily and continued walking. Something yanked him back by his scarf and he tumbled back a bit, dropping the recently lit cig to the frozen ground. Sherlock turned and shot the tiny man a glare. “You made me drop my cigarette.”  
“You was talking to my woman.  
“’Were’. ‘You were talking to my woman.’”  
“Oh, someone’s a smart arse.”  
“I won’t deny that,” Sherlock said with a smirk. The man’s nostrils flared with anger and his fist connected with Sherlock’s mouth. Had he not taken such a beating the previous night he probably would have been all right. But the moment the man’s fist met Sherlock’s face he felt his lip split in the same place it had split before. Blood seeped out of the split down his chin. He tasted blood in his mouth as well from where his lips had been forced against his teeth. The force of the punch reverberated, making his bruised eye, that he’d covered with a bit of make up from Jim, ache. Sherlock went slack for a moment and the man dropped him to the pavement. The sidewalk was cold, even through his coat Sherlock felt the immediate change in temperature.  
“Colin, cut it out.” The sound of the girl’s voice made Sherlock’s head throb. Or was that the punch? It was hard to tell.  
Said Colin mumbled something unintelligible. Sherlock was about to get up when he felt a food come in contact with his already aching side. And again. And again. Sherlock groaned, deciding to just wait it out until this Colin fellow got bored. In a way, Sherlock was glad to have someone truly throttling him. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that Colin would kick him hard enough to crack a rip or two. Like this, pain overwhelming his senses, he felt safer, freer. It was…refreshing.  
A forceful stomp to Sherlock’s midsection caused him to audibly cry out. Definitely a cracked rib. He smiled a bit. “Oi!”  
That sounds was starting to annoy Sherlock, but it had come from someone else. He tried to will his eyes open but he just couldn’t, the soreness overwhelming him, his world slowly going blank. “Get away from him! Leave him alone or I swear to god.”  
A shuffling of feet told Sherlock that Colin and the two women had left. But someone else had come in their stead. “Hey, I need you to stay awake, yes?”  
The voice. It was calm, held together with nerves that, Sherlock would guess, were fairly hard to break. Hands were on him. Hands. Moving his coat open, taking off his scarf, unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock immediately tried to push them away, his eyes shooting open as he tried to scratch at the man’s face. He would not be taken now. Not here. Not on the cold, icy pavement, with everyone watching. He moved his legs to kick at the man above him. Though his eyes were open he couldn’t see. All he saw was a faceless body above him, undressing him, trying to enter him.  
“Hey! Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you, I’m a doctor.” His words didn’t register, Sherlock reached out and caught the man’s cheek, dragging his nails across the soft, scruff covered skin.  
“Ah fuck!”  
The hands disappeared and Sherlock scrambled to get up, pain shooting straight up his body from his hips, and fell back to the pavement. He look up from the frost covered ground, eyes wide. As much as he might have denied it to others, he was afraid. The man looked down at Sherlock, a hand covering his cheek. It was the first time Sherlock was getting a good look at the man. And what he saw, and didn’t see, let Sherlock’s body relax. The man was completely devoid of aggression. Even though Sherlock had clawed his face a bit.  
“I’m not going to hurt you.” The man uttered the words quietly, holding up his hands, showing he meant no harm. “But I will need you to stay awake. There’s an ambulance on the way.”  
Sherlock’s lips quirked for a moment, though he didn’t know why. The last thing he remembered before his world went black was the way those blue eyes locked on his and the way the man’s lips moved as if he were speaking. He didn’t remember them making any noise.


	3. Chapter 3

John sunk deeper into the uncomfortable lobby chair with a scowl. His cheek burned. He deafly lifted a hand to touch the scratches and winced. John had considered waiting for the kid to wake up, but thought better of it. If Sarah found him there’d be some awkward explaining to do, seeing as she didn’t want him within fifty meters of the hospital. He let out a sigh as he peered around the dull waiting room. There were a few chairs, house music playing in the background. Behind the desk sat a secretary that fancied him a bit. She kept shooting apologetic smiles his way. He returned them only because he didn’t want her to tell Sarah he was in. He felt odd sitting in the waiting room rather than seeing to patients, even if he hated working clinic.  
His mind wandered to the young man in the hospital room. John shuttered, remembering the plain, raw, unabashed terror he seen in those eyes that he’d swear could cut diamonds. He hadn’t seen fear like that in a while. Not since Afghanistan. John shifted a bit on his hips and remembered the way the boy had screamed. It had been strange. You never really hear screams, he thought. Mostly shouts, groans. Screams, weren’t something that a teenage boy ejaculated when angry or in pain. It unsettled John greatly.  
Deciding he’d waited long enough John rose and made his way down the corridor to his room. The door was open and the boy with the sharp eyes was fast asleep. Probably knocked out from the pain killers. Now that John was able to see him without being screamed at he was able to take in the boy’s face. He was, John thought for one shocking moment, rather beautiful. He had long unruly curls that haloed around his head against the pillow that looked soft to the touch. The boy’s mouth was slightly open, his breathing deep through his nose and out through his parted lips that John was sure any girl would kill for. Well, perhaps if they weren’t split and cracked. Two stitches held his bottom lip together at a nasty split that reached down from the edge of his bottom lip about half an inch. The pale expanse of skin on the boy’s neck was tainted by rather old looking ligature marks that made John frown. He reached out and fingered the mark for a moment before moving his gaze up the boy’s body. There were clear bruises around his eye socket that he’d noticed when he’d helped the boy earlier. But it wasn’t from this beating, it couldn’t be. It was already a beginning to get a greenish yellow color around the edges, so a few days old, no more than a few days old.  
John reached under the thick knit blanket that covered the boy’s long body and retrieved his left arm and examining it. Around his wrist the skin was rubbed raw. Something that felt heavy and uncomfortable settled in the pit of John’s stomach. His throat suddenly felt too dry. He lifted the left side of the paper gown wrapped awkwardly around the boy’s body and what he saw made him want to spit. Bruises splayed across the boy’s hip, waist, and thigh in the shape of big meaty fingers stretched across his pale skin.  
Someone had been beating him, bruising him. Once he woke, John was sure that a rape kit would turn up positive.  
“Jesus,” he whispered, covering the boy again and running a hand through his sandy hair. It certainly wasn’t the first case of abuse he’d seen in his short medical career, but it certainly was the first he’d seen in London. He’d seen kids considerably younger than the one before him now with bruises from beatings in Afghanistan. He hadn’t been able to do anything for them. He watched them walk in crying in pain and leaving with their father or brother or uncle crying in fear.  
He glanced down to his papers at the end of the bed, the words “JOHN DOE” in big print letters where his name should be. Compelled by anger, John reached under the blanket again and grasped the boys hand tightly. Whoever the hell it was doing this to this kid, he’d end it today. If he had to blow up the lilo and sleep on the floor while this kid slept in his bed. He’d be damned if this kid walked out of the hospital to go back to whoever it was doing this to him.  
“John!”  
He flinched, not expecting anyone else being in the room, but internally groaned the moment he recognized the voice.   
“Sarah, listen, I’m not here as a doctor, I’m here for him.”  
She glared at him, her small frame shaking a little. “Like hell you are. I told you, go home. Do you even know this kid?”  
“I brought him in. He’s a John Doe. Concussion, fractured rib.” John stood, releasing the boy’s hand and replacing it with Sarah’s, dragging her closer. “Look, though. He’s got ligature marks, bruising all over his body but not from this incident. His wrists, check them out. And his hips.”  
Sarah gave him an apprehensive look but half-heartedly complied with John’s request. Her eyes moved back to John for a moment before returning to the boy. She followed the same course that John had only moments before, examining his neck then eye then wrists. John fidgeted against the wall. He was suddenly nervous and he wasn’t entirely sure why. He bit his upper lip as Sarah turned back to him, her white coat crinkling a bit.  
“When he wakes up I want you to talk to him. I’ll call Social Services. He should be waking up soon.”  
John nodded deafly as Sarah left. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the boy being sent away with strangers. He showed no defensive wounds, so John could only assume that he took whatever abuse was dealt him with a disturbingly stiff upper lip, he must be accustomed to that sort of treatment. But the scratches etched into the side of John’s face told a different story. This kid wasn’t normally one to take anyone’s bullshit. John sighed in frustration. Nothing about this boy was adding up.   
“Why were you at the park today?” John asked. He stared at the boy as if he were about to answer. Of course, he didn’t.

Sherlock came awake slowly, groaning in a mixture of pain and exhaustion. The first sensation to hit him was the warmth of the bed. The next was the burning ache all over his body. The last was the feel of someone grasping his hand loosely and that made him start. Sherlock scrambled out of the bed, ripping his left hand out of the man’s beside his bed.   
The man sat up a bit straighter and lifted his hands as if to say ‘I’m unarmed’.  
“Hello.”  
“Where am I?”  
“Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.”  
Sherlock’s throat felt dry and itchy. Jesus, how long had he been asleep? “Get me a doctor. I need to leave.”  
The man smirked just a little. “I’m a doctor. You were in a pretty bad fight back in Regent’s Park. Do you remember?”  
Sherlock frowned at the man who was obviously ignoring his request.  
“Come now, get back in bed, I can tell you’re exhausted.”  
Sherlock’s frowned shifted into a full blown glare. His frustration with this man was quickly snowballing because Sherlock was, indeed, exhausted, but the way this man’s voice was soft, full of pity, made Sherlock’s teeth grind together. “I don’t need you to tell me what I am or am not, thank you. You said you’re a doctor: discharge me. I don’t need to be here.”  
Despite himself Sherlock found himself sinking into the mattress again, wincing as the pain in his side finally registered.  
“My name is John Watson. You’ve got a concussion and a fractured rib. What’s your name, then?”  
Sherlock nibbled on his bottom lip a bit. Well, he had wished for a broken rib, hadn’t he? This man though was asking questions and it made Sherlock exceedingly uncomfortable. “None of your damned business,” he snarled.   
John’s smile faltered a bit and he leaned back in his chair taking in Sherlock. “Alright. I’ll just call you…Evan. I’ve got a cousin named Evan, always been fond of that name.”  
Sherlock tried to smother the grimace on his face at that.  
“Look,” John said, suddenly serious, “I want to talk to you about your bruises.”  
Sherlock’s brows crumpled in confusion. “Don’t be daft, they’re just bruises. I’m fine. I can go.”  
John’s eyes trailed down to Sherlock’s wrists and he stiffened. “You show evidence of physical…and sexual abuse. We were required to phone Social Services. Someone will be in to ask you some questions shortly.”  
If this kid wanted to play hardball John would oblige. He opened his mouth but a knock sounded at the door. It swung open without waiting for a response and a woman stepped in. She was wearing a simple skirt suit and her hair was pulled away from her face in a tidy bun. “Hello Dr. Watson, and…” she turned to Sherlock, waiting for him to provide his name.  
He didn’t, only examined her. She was in her mid thirties probably. Working this job for a few years. She thoroughly enjoyed it. Not married, not dating anyone. She owned two cats. At least one of them was long haired.  
“I’m calling him Evan. I think he likes it.”  
Sherlock snapped around to snarl at John, effectively causing his side to burn and ache.  
“Well I’m Nichole. I’d just like to ask you some questions,” she said to Sherlock, “would you mind, Dr. Watson?”  
John stood and began moving toward the door.  
“No!”  
Both John and Nichole turned toward Sherlock in surprise. “Dr. Watson stays or I’m not answering your questions.”  
John looked a bit taken aback but slowly made his way back to into the room, sitting on the corner of the hospital bed so Nichole could take the chair.

It was forty five tense minutes later that John, Nichole, and Sarah stood outside the room whispering quietly to each other. ‘Evan’, as they’d all given in to calling him, had provided no useful information. He’d barely opened his mouth except to mutter witty responses and groan in frustration.  
“What do you mean you have nothing?” John asked in disbelief.  
“I mean there are no records. We don’t have a name. We don’t have an age. There are no missing person reports. We checked the archives back to 1990 and there is nothing that matches what little description we have. And this ‘Evan’ can’t be any older than twenty, twenty two tops. All we have is his blood type and that’s only because he’s in this hospital.”  
“Well what the hell are you going to do? You can’t just send him back out on the street!”  
“John, Social Services has no plans to leave Evan on any street. We will continue our search for family members and background information but, as of now, all we can do is place him with a family.” Nichole wrote something down on a small notepad before reaching into her coat and pulling out a mobile phone.   
“Do you think…do you think I could…?” John could not fathom what possessed him to utter those words. They were out of his mouth before he could stop himself and he immediately regretted it when both Nichole and Sarah turned to look at him with matching stares of mild shock.  
“Dr. Watson…I don’t think that would be best for…Evan,” Nichole said slowly.  
“John, this boy has been the victim of sexual abuse for God knows how long,” Sarah said softly, “and I don’t think…placing him in the house with a grown man by himself would be conducive to his healing. I mean, look at what he did to you at the park.”  
John could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Of course that made perfect sense. He probably looked like a freak for wanting to take the kid in. John chanced a glance into the hospital room and found the boy staring back at him. Staring was one way of putting it. He was…seeing John. It made him squirm a bit. John just wanted to make sure he was safe and something told him that this kid would just run off at the first chance.   
“I know the perfect place for…Evan,” Nichole said with a soft smile, “if you would really like to keep in contact I’m sure we can arrange for you to visit him, as long as Evan is okay with it, of course.”  
“Hey!”   
John, Nichole, and Sarah whipped around to see the boy holding himself against the doorframe. “I’m not going to live with anyone. Give me my clothes. I’m leaving, I have better things to do than listen to your bickering.”  
“Evan,” Sarah started.  
“Stop calling me Evan. Give me my clothes.”  
John stepped forward a bit to get closer. “Sarah will get you your clothes but you may need help getting dressed.”  
The way those icy iced went from angry to fearful in just a few seconds made John’s throat close. “We’ll get a nurse to help, don’t worry.” John pulled his lips into a small smile and felt a bit of relief when the kid relaxed a bit.  
He looked down at his bare feet on the cold linoleum. “Dr. Watson, may I speak with you alone?”  
“Uh…” John glanced back at Nichole, almost asking for permission. She nodded, a look of surprise pressed across her face. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I need you to take me home.”  
John nearly chocked. “I’m sorry?”  
Sherlock tried his damnedest not to grin, but he felt his eyes twitch. “No. I mean I need to leave. Go back to my home. I have someone waiting for me. You know just as well as I that should that service worker send me home with someone that I will run away. Help me cut the middle man.”  
John’s face contorted into something Sherlock didn’t quite recognize. The shorter man squared his shoulders a bit. “I…I can’t do that. I’m not letting you go back there. Not after I’ve seen what they do to you.”  
Frustration flashed through those ice blue eyes. “Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Doctor Watson. I need neither your pity nor your help to get what I want. I am a man that utilizes my resources, but if my resources will not comply I will manage quite fine without the help of a man who is less qualified to practice civilian medicine than I am. Do tell me, Doctor Watson, how was your tour in – Afghanistan was it? Tell me how you’re simply projecting your inadequacies onto me, the unfortunate symbol of your own failure.”  
John looked a bit taken aback that Sherlock knew about his military service but to Sherlock’s surprise a grin broke against John’s thin lips. “You want to play this game, do you? All right. I’d planned on being a bit more sensitive because of your situation but I can see you don’t want coddling. Would you like to know why I refuse to help you? The injuries you’ve sustained are old. I can see from where I stand the ligature mark on your neck that’s about, what? Just over a week old? And the bruises on your hands where you’ve been grabbed a bit too hard match the same ones on your hips. You’ve been dealing with this bastard, whoever it is, for a long time. Meaning he’s probably familiar to you. But you’re also, amazing for someone so young, a complete arse. You would take this shit sitting down. Ever. You hardly stand me telling you ‘no’, you threw a tantrum like a toddler. But you know what I don’t see, on nameless wonderboy?”  
John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm with surprising gentleness and brought it too his face, inspecting his hands briefly then meeting Sherlock’s gaze once more.  
“Where are your defensive wounds?”  
The question hung in the air for a moment before Sherlock’s upper lip twitched upward in what he could only imagine was a snarl.  
“You attacked me today at the park when I saved you from that boy,” John said matter-of-factly turning his head to show Sherlock the scratches, deep and long across the scruff covered cheek. “But you won’t defend yourself against this…monster?”  
John dropped Sherlock’s arm. Well. More threw it back. Sherlock didn’t really know what to say to that. He was suddenly embarrassed. This man, this Doctor John Watson, had read him with near perfection. And it was terrifying.  
“You may have given up on yourself, kid,” John continued with a hard voice, “but don’t you think for one fucking second that just because you don’t give a shit anymore means that I, or anyone else for that matter, are going to give up on you too.”  
John’s blue eyes were hard set on Sherlock and the look the older man was giving him made Sherlock feel uncomfortable. “I need to leave; his people are looking for me.”  
The words were out of Sherlock’s mouth faster than he could think and he wanted to punch himself in the gut.  
“Tell me who is looking for you.”  
Sherlock stood a bit straighter and folded his arms over his chest, wincing at the movement as his ribs screamed for him to lie down.  
“Alright,” John said in a huff. “There are two options for you, Evan. Option one: you leave with Nichole and she takes you to a home with a wife, husband, three children, a few dogs, and you share a room with the youngest until we get you and your paperwork all sorted, which will probably take months since someone has wiped you off the face of the earth. Option two: you leave with me and you stay in your own room and I make sure you don’t run away and try to stay out of your nose until you’re sorted.”  
“Why do you care?” Sherlock asked quietly. There was no trace of sarcasm or irritation in his face. He was genuinely, and he thought rightly, curious.  
“Because someone should.”  
There was another stretch of silence and they watched each other. Sherlock’s eyes drifted over John’s body for a moment and something like a grin tried to sneak its way onto his face. In truth, if Sherlock really had to make the choice between temporarily living with John or with a family nicked out of a home magazine he’d pick the doctor every time. John seemed challenging, and challenging was fun. He wasn’t the type to cower whenever Sherlock threw a tantrum, as John had already shown. And he was not, by any stretch of the imagination ordinary. But Sherlock was already beginning to crave for another fix. It would be harder to sneak out of the flat of, Sherlock guessed, a former military soldier.  
He could lie low for a day or so with whatever god-awful family this Nichole sent him to then make his way back to Jim. If Jim didn’t come for him first. Knowing that madman his people were already searching the streets for him.  
“I’ll take the picturesque family, thank you very much.”  
John had, surprisingly, been spot on about the infuriatingly ordinary family that Nichole had set him with. Carla and Michael Sims had greeted Sherlock on their front steps with open arms. Quite literally. Sherlock had found himself snatched into tight hugs and he’d immediately frozen in his spot, partly because he wasn’t accustomed to being touched in this way and because Carla had managed to get her arms right over his fractured rib. Their smiles, he thought to himself, were genuine if not laced with pity. It irritated him beyond imagination.  
They had two children, a daughter nearer to Sherlock’s age named Rebecca and a younger son that Sherlock had taken to calling ‘hey, you’. Their dog, stupidly named Bear seemed to have taken a liking to curling into Sherlock’s coat when he wasn’t wearing it. He’d found the large dog twisted up in his coat three times in the past day and had spent the intervals between those finds picking the long brown hairs out of his coat.  
And of course, they were all calling him Evan. Sherlock made a not to remember to strangle John the next time he saw him. Whenever that would be. He’d told the doctor to ‘come round for tea sometime’ as he stepped into the small gray compact car with Nichole. He wondered if he’d take him up on the offer. He’d already suffered two days with the Sims family, and though he would like to see John again Sherlock knew he could only last so much longer until he was tempted to murder one of the Sims in a withdrawal fueled rage.  
He’d managed to keep his temper on watch these past two days with some of Michael’s books that Sherlock had found decidedly not boring. One he’d read within about six hours, titled The Anatomy and Behavior of the Bombus. He found it rather fascinating and if not a bit whimsical for his tastes. Now, Sherlock was sitting on the bed that he and ‘Hey, You’ shared, his knees pressed to his chest, more looking at the words on the page than reading this book the title of which Sherlock had forgotten a few hours ago.  
It wasn’t until he felt the bed dip beside him that he realized someone had entered the room. He looked over and Rebecca sat leaning toward him a bit with a small shy smile. “Hi, Evan.”  
“My name’s not Evan.”  
She giggled as if Sherlock had just told the funniest joke she’d ever heard. “Well maybe you could tell me your name?”  
“I think not.”  
“Why so mysterious? I just want to be friends.” Sherlock glanced over at her. She was certainly prettier than the girls who’d given him a cigarette were. She had a sort of natural attractiveness about her. But Sherlock was not interested in the least.  
“I don’t have friends.”  
“Well I think I can fix that.”  
Rebecca raised a hand to run a finger idly down the plain white t shirt Sherlock had been wearing for the past day. He suddenly felt ultimately uncomfortable. She was far too close to him and the room suddenly felt too small. Oh god, was she about to kiss him? She’d started to lean in when they both heard Clara calling Sherlock, or Evan, loudly from downstairs.  
Sherlock couldn’t leap up fast enough, even if he’s body was protesting from his hips up to his split lip. He didn’t look back at Rebecca as he threw the door open and hobbled down the wooden staircase to the sitting room where Clara was chatting with someone Sherlock couldn’t quite see from behind her. Whoever it was began chuckling, a soft welcoming sort of sound that Sherlock immediately recognized.  
“Ah Evan, you’ve got a visitor.” Clara stepped aside and John smiled over at him. The scratches he’d made across John’s face were healing well. Of course they were, Sherlock thought to himself, he’s a doctor, don’t be dim.  
“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock acknowledged with a nod, “to what do I owe this honor?”  
“Tea,” he said with a tone of mock reverence.  
Clara set a small tray between them on the small table, two tea cups set out, the kettle, cream, sugar, a few biscuits. Their own little scene of simple domesticity, Sherlock thought with a small sigh of resignation. John sat across from him, rubbing aimlessly at his right thigh and fixing a cup of tea with his free hand. When Clara finally excused herself and John and Sherlock were finally alone John spoke.  
“How do you like it here?” he asked, offering Sherlock the cup he’d prepared.  
Sherlock snorted in response and grasped the small cup. “I’d liken it to living in a sanitorium.”  
“That bad?” John asked with a small grin.  
“The daughter is a bit too friendly,” Sherlock said blandly, sipping on the tea.  
That made John’s hands stop. He glanced up at Sherlock with an almost frown. “Did she…I mean…are you alright?”  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor, and leaned back into the sofa. “You think I can’t fend off a seventeen year old girl?”  
“I think you’ve gone through a trauma and a girl who can’t take no isn’t going to help you get better.”  
“That’s assuming there’s something wrong with me to begin with.”  
“There is.”  
“Oh, I was unaware you had your degree in psychology. Please enlighten me, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock grinned just a tad before returning the tea cup to his lips.  
“How’d you know I was in the army?” John asked, brushing off Sherlock’s mild attitude.  
“I didn’t know, I saw.”  
“What did you see, then?”  
“Your limp, your bitterness, the way you carry yourself. You weren’t on duty when you found me at the park. In fact you weren’t even supposed to be at Bart’s. You were fired, perhaps? Maybe on unpaid leave from your practice? Pairing all of that with the tattoo you have on the inside of your left wrist you keep trying to hide by pulling your jumper sleeve down. I’m guessing it reveals what your company was perhaps?” Sherlock reached for one of the biscuits and plopped it into his mouth, suddenly realizing he was starving. He hadn’t eaten any real food in about four days.  
John stared at him for a moment with wide eyes. He opened his mouth but snapped it closed before words could escape. Sherlock watched with mild amusement. “That was…rather brilliant,” John finally said with a small shake of his head.  
“I’m sorry?” Sherlock couldn’t have heard those words right.  
“That was amazing.”  
There was a beat of awkward silence before Sherlock finally responded. “You think so?”  
“Yes, of course.” John watched as he shifted obviously uncomfortable with the compliment. “Hasn’t anyone told you that before?”  
“No. No not at all.” Sherlock tried to remember when the last time he’d received a genuine compliment was. What did one usually say after they were complimented? Oh right. “Thank you.”  
John smiled and rolled his sleeve up revealing the tattoo he had been covering. It was simple, very basic. Much like John, Sherlock thought for a moment. In dark ink on John’s forearm was a sort of emblem. Circling the edges it read ‘Northumberland Fusiliers’ and at the center was a soldier riding horseback.  
Sherlock smiled, happy that he’d been right.  
“I brought you something,” John said reaching down onto the floor for his satchel. Sherlock’s brows crumpled together in a mix of confusion and further embarrassment. Out of his canvas satchel, John retrieved a rather heavy looking book and held it out to Sherlock. “I’ve been talking to Michael, he said you took quite a shining to a book about bees?”  
Sherlock took it, running his long thin fingers over the book cover that read Africanized Honeybee. “I saw it in a shop and thought you’d like it. Especially since this place seems deathly boring.”  
“Uh…yes. Yes, of course. I…thank you.”  
“What?” John asked with a curious grin.  
“I just…don’t understand it,” Sherlock said gripping the book as if John were about to snatch it back.  
“Well you see, this is called a book. On the inside there are words on pages and you read them and you learn things. It’s sort of like a movie for your mind,” John said.  
“You know that’s not what I mean, you prick.” Sherlock could feel his face heating up and he looked down at the book in his lap and fingered the spine.  
“It’s a gift. You know, people exchange them with friends and family and such.”  
“Yes, obviously. But…you want something. What do you want?” Sherlock’s breath was suddenly getting hard to maintain. He was feeling nervous and embarrassed and scared all at once. Surely John wouldn’t want…that. He didn’t strike Sherlock as that type. But what else could he want if he was giving him a gift?  
John’s grin faded slowly and he tilted his head, watching Sherlock avoid his eyes. “Hey,” he finally said. Sherlock didn’t respond. “Look at me.”  
Sherlock didn’t. “Just tell me what you want.”  
“Look at me,” John demanded a second time. Sherlock finally complied, his eyes floating upward to meet John’s. “Why do I have to want anything to give you a book?”  
“Because you giving me a book, without expecting anything in return, suggests you wish to have an altruistic relationship. The idea of altruism is the product of a privileged idiot without a solid grasp on the rather unfortunate reality of reality. You require something I have. Tell me what it is.”  
John felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. This kid was in too deep. Is this how he lived his life? Paranoid and afraid of everything even if he wouldn’t show it? “Jesus,” he whispered sitting back a bit. He felt like he should apologize but the look on the boy’s face kept him silent.  
“I just…want you to not be miserable.”  
Sherlock looked rather scandalized at that.  
“I want…” John continued slowly, “I want you to see that you don’t have to live like this.” Sherlock watch john pull a tissue from his pocket and pass it to Sherlock who stared at it oddly. It wasn’t until that he realized he had a small few tears trailing down his cheeks.  
“I don’t need your damn tissue,” he said, wiping his face off with his hands.  
“Okay. I’d best be going.” John said with a stale voice. Sherlock was torn. He desperately didn’t want John to leave him with these ordinary people and their daughter who clung to him like a flea. He wanted to go with him. Or for him to stay. But he also wanted to kick John’s teeth in for seeing him like this.  
John stood and idled his way to the door. “We’ll do this again, yes?”  
Sherlock caught his breath at out hopeful John sounded. Well, of course. It was up to Sherlock if John was allowed to come back or not. Sherlock gave a stiff nod.  
“Good day, Doctor Watson.”  
“Just John.”  
“Good day, Just John.”  
John smirked and left, closing the door softly behind him. Sherlock immediately opened the book in his lap and flipped through the pages a bit. A piece of torn receipt fell out from between two pages and floated down to the floor. Sherlock bent as much as he could to pick it up. Scribbled on the back in messy handwriting that could only belong to a doctor the receipt had a mobile number written on it with a note reading “Call in emergency.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had, in a haze of frustration and pain from withdrawals, decided to leave the discomfort of the Sims household that night, the few personals that he’d brought with him, along with the book John had given him, had been stuffed in a small cloth bag and thrown over his shoulder as he crept down the stairwell and out the front door.

                It was freezing. Colder than it should have been for November. Sherlock buttoned his coat closed, casting a frustrated look to the night sky, as if his glare could command the weather itself. He couldn't spy a single star as he stared up into the empty blackness tinged purple nearer to the horizons. Sherlock stopped on the sidewalk, looking up. The darkness was unnerving yet reassuring in the same breath. There was nothingness. No hope, no dispair, no expectations and therefore no disappointments. Just nothing.

                Sherlock, for reasons even he couldn't find, extended his right arm into the air as far as he could  until he side began to burn and ache against the stretching. long gloved fingers splaying out against the blackness. He suddenly felt incredibly silly and quickly stuffed his hand back into his pocket, hoping to god that nobody had seen that.

                A familiar itchy sensation rubbed its way to the surface if his skin and Sherlock groaned loudly in frustration. He was going mad without the drugs. The thought of sinking the needle into his vein, watching the heroin mix with his dark blood, and feeling the euphoria sweep through him as he pushed the concoction back into his body caused a wave of shivers to come over him as he pressed on down the sidewalk.

                Trying to distract himself, his thoughts floated to his family. It was late November now, Mycroft's birthday would be coming up. At the thought of his older brother Sherlock grimaced. A mixture of worry and disgust coursed through him. The last time he'd been on friendly terms with Mycroft had been almost five years ago. Around the time of their father's funeral. To say that Mycroft had taken the death of their father hard would have been an almost criminal understatement. While their father hadn't exactly been Father of the Year Siger Holmes was far from abusive or neglectful. Even Sherlock had to admit that the man, while completely out of his depth when it came to interacting with his two sons, had definitely tried to be the best father he could. But Mycroft had worshipped the ground the man had walked upon. Even after Sherlock had uncovered his father's affair. He'd been seven.

                Sherlock had always wondered afterward if his father held him personally responsible for the impending nosedive of his parents' marriage. Sherlock had assumed so. Their father had doted on Mycroft constantly, readily offering to take Mycroft on outings obligatorily inviting Sherlock along. He'd always declined, choosing instead to stay with their mother. Unlike Siger Holes, Violet had an unspoken ease to being a parent and Sherlock shamelessly adored. But when Siger had finally passed away Mycroft was devastated. Sherlock remembered how each night would pass at the dinner table and each night Mycroft would pick at his food, eating nothing until their mother finally ordered him to eat. And he had.

                Sherlock remembered poking his small curl covered head out the door of his bedroom in the middle of the night and hearing Mycroft retching into the loo. He remember padding across the floor, down the hall, clinging to the banister until he reached the bathroom and turned to see Mycroft hunched over the toilet, sobbing but not making any sound whatsoever. He remembered the way Mycroft's rips had protruded out against his waist and how his shoulders came to bony points, visible even through his nightshirt. One night, Sherlock had found Mycroft pass out, his head leaning against the seat of the toilet. Sherlock had dragged Mycroft back to his own room and slid his older brother under the covers with him before climbing into bed himself. He hadn't slept that night. He'd watched Mycroft's thin frame rise and fall with shallow breaths. Sherlock couldn't sleep. He was too afraid. Afraid that, should he drift to sleep, those shallow breaths would cease and it would be all his fault. Neither spoke of that night in particular. But Sherlock had, even after he and Mycroft had fallen out, kept a close eye on his brother, making sure Mycroft got a bit of food into him every day and that it stayed there.

                It had been a while since he'd spoken with Mycroft. He wondered for a brief moment if anyone was watching Mycroft's his weight.

                He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking when Sherlock heard a few footsteps behind him somewhere. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, listening. The second pair of footsteps came to a slow halt about twenty five feet behind him. He shifted the bag on his left shoulder a bit taking a deep breath. This was going to hurt. A lot. He inhaled deeply and paused a moment, letting the air  in his lungs steep, and exhaled out of his mouth before breaking into a full run down the sidewalk. Just as he expected, the footsteps behind him broke into a run as well.

                Sherlock felt the bag on his shoulder slipping off and let it fall to the pavement as he took a sharp turn down a corner street and into an alley. Blood was pounding in his ears and his head was starting to hurt. The pain in his side was slowly subsiding, giving into the rush of endorphins flooding his brain.

                "You can't run forever!" the voice called behind him.

                Sherlock didn't stop, didn't look back. He just kept running. If he had to wager a guess, he'd say this was one of Jim's men and while Jim's flat was indeed his final destination, he was not about to let one of Jim's slow minded brutes haul him back to the flat as if he were a runaway. Sherlock didn't trust Jim as far as he could spit and Jim's cronies were even less trustworthy. Should this man get his hands on Sherlock, Sherlock was fairly positive he'd be beaten within an inch of his life or raped. Either way he was in no mood to lay down for this man.

                Sherlock slammed, full force into a fence at the end of the alley way. He shook his head, trying to gather his wits again, before scrambling up the fence. A hard tug on the tail of his coat stopped his progress

                I have to get out. I have to. I don't have another option. I have to.

                He chanted that to himself as he tried to kick at the hand gripping him in place. "Oh no you don't you little bastard!"

                A forceful yank ripped Sherlock down from the fence to the cold wet ground below. He landed on his back, and for a moment he seemed to forget how to breathe. Gasping Sherlock rolled to his stomach and began a slow crawl in a last attempt to escape. A booted foot pressed down on his back, making Sherlock collapse to the pavement, his face pressed hard against the ground.

                "Now there's a nice laddie," the man said with a smile in his voice once Sherlock had stopped moving. He felt the man lie on top of him, his erection pressing harshly against the small of Sherlock's back. The man bent to whisper in Sherlock's ear, "You know Jim don't like no runaways."

                "I..I..."

                Sherlock tried to form words but couldn't, fear of what he knew would come gripping him tightly and squeezing his words into nothing.

                "What's that, chicken? I couldn't hear ya."

                "I d-didn't run a-a-away," Sherlock stammered. He slammed his eyes shut, every muscle in his body tensing.

                The man rolled his hips into Sherlock's body and Sherlock let out a desperate, wordless cry for help. The man caught Sherlock's arms and pinned them out to the side. "Now, now, chicken. None of that."

                The man shifted off of Sherlock just long enough for him to force Sherlock onto his back. Holding Sherlock's arms above his head with one hand, the man moved to unbutton his pants then Sherlock’s. Sherlock laid still, his eyes glazing over as the man undressed his lower half. He closed his eyes as he felt the man removing his shoes, trousers, and pants and spreading his legs wide.

                A small voice in Sherlock's head sounded then.

                "Where are your defensive wounds?"

                He was suddenly overcome with an intense desire to die. To fold in on himself. To cease to exist. An image flashed across Sherlock's mind. His mother waving goodbye from the large extravagant threshold of the Holmes manor as his taxi pulled away from the mansion. And without even thinking Sherlock uttered a small strangled "Mummy".

                The man chuckled and leaned down to Sherlock's face. "Mummy isn't here, chicken."

                A small cry escaped Sherlock's lips as he turned his head away. Another image. A book. And a tattoo. And a soft smile with sad blue eyes and a cozy looking jumper and a small limp. "John."

                "You can call me John if you like," the man said with a sneer.

                The man entered Sherlock with a fast and unforgiving thrust and Sherlock felt as if his entire body had been set on fire. The pain overwhelmed him for a moment and he feared he'd black out. The man pushed into Sherlock again, invading his body and his senses in a way that terrified Sherlock beyond comprehension. He wasn't sure what he was shouting or whether it was even English. But as the man's hips came into contact with Sherlock's pelvis he gave a small whine. Tears of pain and shame pooled in his eyes as the man increased the pace. Eventually they spilled over, staining his face.

                Sherlock was unsure of how long after the tears began that the man finished. Or when he stood and began redressing himself. Time had stopped for Sherlock as he laid in the alley, pain searing through him, tears streaking his face, the stitches on his lip straining against the silent sobbing Sherlock was trying, unsuccessfully, to quail. The man approached Sherlock, sweat still beaded on his brow, his brown eyes looking Sherlock up and down expectantly. "Well get up then, best be getting back."

                Sherlock laid still. His eyes locked on something under a rubbish bin against the wall of the alley. When he didn't begin to rise the man leaned down and yanked Sherlock up to his feet, causing him to moan in pain. His legs were unprepared for his weight and Sherlock crumbled to the ground, landing on his knees. The man chuckled a bit as Sherlock crawled toward the rubbish bin, using it to steady himself as he rose again.

                Sherlock clutched at the thing that had caught his eye beneath the bin, hoping desperately that the idiot hadn't seen him slip it into his hand, and used his empty one to cover himself in an unsuccessful attempt at modesty. He felt blood trailing down his left leg.

                The man bent, picking up Sherlock's pants and trousers and held them out. "Get dressed then." Sherlock managed a shaky nod as he reached out with the hand he'd been covering himself with. He gripped the man's arm fast and tight and before the man could react Sherlock sunk the jagged piece of glass into the man's neck.

                Blood spurted out a bit, landing on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock gasped and released the man, shoving him back into the gate. He stumbled back, hands clawing at the glass jutting out from his neck. He made a gurgling noise before his eyes focused on Sherlock.

                Sherlock snarled, overcome with a very real need to end this man's life and lunged forward, ripping the glass out of his neck and stabbing downward again. And a third time. And fourth. By the seventh time Sherlock stabbed into the man's throat he was very much dead and Sherlock was aching all over. He dressed slowly. His body still burned from the intrusion of that boorish man. It hurt to bend over.

                All without warning Sherlock's tears began to flow again. Sounds breaking through now that he was alone. He sobbed. Loudly. His chest burning with the rapid rise and fall of the breaths he took. His hands were too shaky and he decided through the tears to abandon any attempt at tying his shoes.

                It was a slow walk to the entrance of the alley, his socked feet catching on the uneven pavement over and over, his legs moving like frozen putty. His nose was runny and wiping across his coat sleeve was only making it burn with irritation. He spotted his bag against the wall of a building. Right where he left it.

                He stooped to pick it up and rifled through it quickly, looking for something in particular. He retrieved his book and flipped open to the inside cover where the receipt sat. He snatched the receipt up as if it were about to disappear and shoved the book back into his back and the bag onto his shoulder. With a small bubbling cry, he began walking again, tears falling from his eyes and blood soaking the seat of his pants and trousers.

 

                The sound of his mobile ringing woke John. Jesus what time was it?

                John rolled over in his bed, the covers falling away from his shoulders a bit and reached blindly out for his mobile in the darkness. It wasn't a number he recognized but he answered anyway.

                "Doctor John Watson," he mumbled sleepily. What he heard next made John's sit up and his eyes bulge out.

                "J-J-John. It's me. I've been...I... Just please help me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm slowly starting to get used to the formatting of AO3. I know the past few chapters have been really difficult to read because of the structure. I promise I will fix them! Also, sorry for the delay in posting this chapter to this site. I posted this chapter to fanfiction.net like...2 days ago...Sorry...
> 
> Anyway! I'd like to thank everyone for their support of my story! I'm so glad you all like it! If you are unaware, I have posted this story to AO3 if you'd like to read it there. But just gonna be honest. I don't really know how to work AO3 yet so the formatting of the story on that site is straight up SHIT. But to each their own. Another side note! I will be attending 221B Con this upcoming April! Everyone who is able should also go!
> 
> Thanks again, to all of you wonderful, precious pumpkins.
> 
> And remember! YOUR REVIEWS SUSTAIN ME!


	6. Chapter 6

Jim's head lolled back a bit, swaying in time with the music. A small smile, that might have been described as tranquil had it been on anyone else's face, decorated his lips. The room was the exact opposite of what one would expect. Jim sat in a winged, his legs thrown over the side and his shoulders supported against the opposite arm . A book was open on his chest but his hands were currently moving through the air, conducting in time with the music floating out of the speakers on the dresser against the wall. The dark, rich leather of the chair fit nicely with the rest of the room. The window was open, allowing some night breezes to leak into the room and the light from inside to leak out.

                Jim had yet to acknowledge the young man that had slowly entered his room. He was short and rather dumpy. A bead of nervous sweat settle in the boy's cupid's bow and his tongue darted out to lick it up. "Mr. Jim, sir," he said, clearing his throat a bit. Jim didn't open his eyes or sit up or even turn to look at the boy. Instead he extended one finger toward the boy as if to say "wait".

                He shifted on his feet, his eyes moving awkwardly around the room as the piece came to a close, the lovely classical music replaced by a pop song he'd never heard. Jim sighed, moving to stand. "What do you want?"

                "I've got news about your runaway, sir."

                At that, Jim's eyes lit up, a mix of a sneer and a smile breaking out on his face. "Sherlock, my dear dear Sherly. Bring him to me. I've got a few words for him."

                "Well," the young man stopped, not really knowing what to say now.

                Jim's head tilted a bit, a gesture that might have been perceived as curious in another situation, but the messenger stiffened a bit, sucking in a deep breath as Jim rose from his seat to stand a tad too close. "Well?"

                "We don't have him," he said in a rush, "he's...gotten away, we found Mark's body in an alley near Finsbury. We think...that Sherlock might have..."

                There was a silence that fell over them, as the Bee Gees played in the background, completely unaware of the tension that loomed in the air. Jim nodded once before adjusting his tie and walking past the messenger to the desk and rifling through one of the draws. "What is your name?"

                "I..uh...Charlie."

                "Charlie," Jim said, not really speaking to him, more tasting the name on his tongue. "Well, Charlie, this is distressing news."

                He turned slowly, a letter opener clutched in his hand, picking at his nails. "Sherlock is one of my favorite toys, you know. He's difficult," he said. The letter opener suddely dug into the skin beneath his nail, blood oozing slowly around the point. Jim brought his bleeding finger closer to his face with a rather bored expression. He approached Charlie with a grin and began to speak again, wiping the tip of the letter opener across Charlie's old polo shirt, his blood smearing against the fabric.

                "Sherlock has an...interesting character. He's rather brilliant and fun. Also one of the more popular among the clientel. Did you know that Sherlock brings in over nine hundred pounds in a week?"

                Charlie bit his lip and shook his head.

                Jim smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.

                "Well he does. And Daddy is a bit upset that he's been misplaced. If I'm so inclined, I may just have to harm the messsenger," Jim said, his hand snaking up to Charlie's face, giving it three light smacks.

                "I'm very sorry, Mr. Jim. We'll find him. I swear," he said, in a rushed voice, his words sort of mushing together a bit as he watch Jim with wide fearful eyes.

                "No."

                "Sir?"

                "You little...pawns have proved that you are considerably out of your depth. Go back to dragging your knuckles, Daddy will handle this. I must pop out, please have a seat, I'm not quite finished with you." Jim said with a small twitch of his lips. Charlie hesitantly moved to sit in Jim's winged chair.

                "Hold tight, I'll just be a minute."

                Jim set the letter opener on the dresser top and stepped out of the room, the opening of the door allowing a bit of _Stayin' Alive_ to drift out into the hallway. Leaning against the wall, Sebastian waited for Jim, his blue eyes looking painfully bored. "Seb, will you please take the trash out? And for the love of god, please be neat about it."

                Sebastian rolled his eyes, "Whatever you say, Jim."

                Jim moved down the stairs, his hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets before he called back up to Seb. "When you're done, we're going out!"

                The sound of his bedroom door opening caused Jim's hard to jump a bit in excitement and he awaited what came next. A few hushed barely audible words. Then a shot. The sound moved through the walls and the floor, coursing through Jim bringing a grin to his face. It was a few seconds before Seb joined him at the bottom of the stairs. "I said 'neat', Seb."

                The blue eyed man shrugged and moved to grab his coat. "I did try."

* * *

                John strained his eyes through the sleet, his faced pressed against the window of the taxi. It was freezing tonight. And the cold slush falling from the sky was not helping this search and rescue. "Hey, slow down!" John shouted at the cabbie who only grunted in response as he slowed to a crawl along empty street.

                A light a few feet in front of them caught John's attention. There was a black slump inside, leaning into the corner. That was him. "Stop, stop, stop!"

                The taxi slowed to a stop and John hopped out, telling the cabbie to stay put. He pulled his hood up over his head and raced over to the phonebooth. The boy's eyes were closed, his body shaking violently, racked with cold even with his coat on. He was dry for the most part. his behind and legs were a bit wet from where the sleet had leaked into the booth. John knelt over him, immediately kicking into medic mode.

                He was breathing, not too hurt from what he could tell.

                "J-J-John..."

                John looked up and met the boy's eyes. Those bright eyes clouded with something John didn't recognize "Hey, yeah, I'm here. It's okay. You'll be alright. Can you walk?"

                John slid his coat off if himself, wrapping it messily around the younger man's shoulders. He shivered in the wind and wetness. "Can you walk?" he repeated, "I've got a cab waiting for us."

                He nodded shakily, trying to push himself up off the ground but failing miserably, landing back on his hip. His legs were probably numb. "Hey, I'm going to pick you up and carry you to the taxi."

                Those icy eyes glared at him, but John didn't have time to argue. He slipped his arms under those long legs and around his waist, pulling him against his chest. "Wraps your arms around my neck," John said, rising from the ground. Those long, gangly arms hesitantly snaked around John, holding himself in place weakly. Jesus, this kid was tall. He was at least seven inches taller than John, so this made it a bit awkward to carry him back to the taxi and help him inside.

                Mumbling directions to the cabbie, John pulled the kid a bit closer to him, trying to warm him up. John stopped though when he felt him grib a fistful of John's wet shirt and press it to his face. Those black curls resting against his shoulder, and the boy's face pressed against his chest, John could only wrap an arms around his shoulders as that small slim body shook against him.

 

                Sherlock groaned as  he awoke. His body ached, though his head was feeling admittedly better. His legs burned, his ribs were screaming at him for his stupidity, his arse throbbed with a dull ache, and his veins felt like they were inflammed. He was very suddenly aware that his arms itched badly. No, his whole bloody body did. He rolled over, trying to will away the irritation when he remembered John.

                John. He was at John's flat.

                He sat up, looking around. It was rather...empty. Beside the bed was a small nightstand with a glass of water atop, a few ice cubes floating in it. Sherlock drank down the water quickly and messily, a few drops running down his jaw and onto his shirt. No not his shirt. he was in a jumper that was too big and, irritatingly, too small. the chest was far to big, sagging against Sherlock's tiny frame, the sleeves were too short though, riding a bit high on Sherlock's forearm. His trousers had been replaced with old gray sweatpants that were also too short for his long legs. Around his right hand was a securly tied bandage. Turning his hand over, he could see some blood stains through the crisp white fabric. He was confused, but so very warm.

                Across from the small bed that Sherlock sat in, was a desk, the laptop open. So he was still here. Somewhere. Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood very slowly, testing his weight on them. When he was sure he wouldn't topple to the ground he walked slowly out of the bedroom into the main sitting room. He spotted John's tawny hair first, sticking out from under a small lap blanket that was pulled up to cover John's torso, his short legs left out. He was curled into the couch, a thick folder open beside the couch where he was sleeping. Sherlock tiptoed over, picking up the folder and examining it.

                From what Sherlock could gather it was a sort of patient record. Photocopies of charts and general information, all with John's signature at the bottom beside another: Sarah Sawyer. Sherlock grinned. Before looking over at John. He was still fast asleep. Sherlock found himself a bit captured by the sight of the sleeping man. His lips were open a bit, his eyes closed, his forehead creased with the evidence of a night of poor sleep. Sherlock's fault really. The steady rise and fall of John's chest was mesmorizing.

                He wasn't sure how long he'd been hunched over John watching him when those blue eyes fluttered open.

                "Jesus fucking christ," he shouted a bit too loudly. John covered his face with his hands, trying to calm his starttled heart. Sherlock's confused expression was probably a bit too clear. "Sorry, you were just..." John started as he sat up, "well I didn't expect to wake up to an audience."

                "Are you a student?"

                John eyed Sherlock with a half hearted grimace. "A bit. Yes. Now, do you want something to eat?"

                At the thought of food, Sherlock's stomach turned and grumbled, causing him to blush. He nodded, suddenly overcome with embarassment. Determined to squash that, Sherlock squared his shoulders and lifted his chin high. "That would be lovely, thank you."

                Sherlock scarfed down the egg that John and orange juice John had prepared. John watched him from across the table, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

                "Are you okay?"

                Sherlock swallowed his last bit of egg before leaning back in his chair. He opened his mouth but closed it before he could speak. A few seconds passed before he tried again. "Yes. Thank you."

                He didn't mean for asking, or for the breakfast, or even for coming when he called last night. Sherlock owed this strange little man more than he could mentally grasp. He'd saved him from situations more times than Sherlock felt comfortable with. John nodded.

                "Evan," John began. Sherlock glared at him and John couldn't help but smile.

                "If you don't want me calling you that, I don't have to, but if you could tell me your name, I'd be quite obliged." He waited then, for Sherlock's response. Sherlock was very tempted to say nothing again. He turned up his nose with a 'hurumph'.

                "My name is John Hamish Watson," John said, slowly. Sherlock turned to look at him with a curious expression. "I'm twenty two. I was born on the seventh of July in 1987 here in London. My blood type is O negative, universal donor. My parents are Alice and Wilbur. I've got a twin sister, Harriet, she's seven minutes older than I am, and a kid brother named Andy. My favorite color is blue. My first job was at a small soap shop when I was sixteen."

                Sherlock tried his damnedest to keep the smile that was bubbled beneath his skin from his lips.

                "Know you know a bit about me. I would, very much, like to know your name," John said softly.

                "I..." he stopped and bit his lip.

                "Yes?" John prompted.

                He tried again. "My..."

                Why in the hell was he so afraid? It felt like the air in the flat was suddenly thick, he couldn't inhale. He could hear blood rushing through his ears and his entire body suddenly felt sticky.

                "Hey, hey, look at me," John said. He didn't respond, so John moved around to kneel beside him, taking those long pale fingers in his taned hands. " _Look_ at me. Breathe. In through your nose. No, your _nose._ Yes, that's it. Again. Breathe, calm down. I am not going to hurt you, do you understand? I never will. Ever. I know you've been through a lot, and it's hard to trust people, but believe me when I say that you can trust-"

                "Sherlock."

                John stopped his head cocking a bit. Had he heard that right...? "I'm...I'm sorry?"

                "My name," he said, shakily, his eyes meeting John's fiercely. In them John didn't see fear or distrust at all. He saw determination. "My name is Sherlock."

                John smiled softly, patting Sherlock's hands. "And you though 'Evan' was a rubbish name."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of my American followers, I hope you had a considerably better Thanksgiving than I did!
> 
> Thank you to all of guys! from all 990 Americas following this story to the ONE Austrian reading it! I love all of you! You're all absolutely fabulous. You have all been wonderful! Thanks you for the review and the hits. I hope that you're all enjoying it so far. I'm very happy to bring Jim back in to the story! Just a reminder that I AM going to 221b Con, a convention for everything Sherlock Holmes in Atlanta Georgia. If you're able, you should definitely look into going.
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on Tumblr, my new URL is QueriesofaQueer, previously PhilosophiesofaCritic.
> 
> Remember, YOUR REVIEWS SUSTAIN ME!


	7. Chapter 7

John chuckled to himself as he pulled Sherlock's clothes out of the washing machine. "Sherlock" he said to himself with a small shake of his head. A ridiculous name, if he thought too long about it, though he quite liked the way it flowed off of his tongue. It was thick, demanded attention so it wouldn't sound like mush coming out of his mouth. Sherlock's name, John mused, seemed a good fit for the slightly manic young man. John's gaze floated up to the ceiling. He could hear the water running upstairs. Good, Sherlock needed a good washing.

                John was a bit surprised by how little clothing Sherlock actually had. He'd washed what he could: a pair of black trousers, a pair of denim jeans, some pants, and a few plain white tee shirts. He'd have to get Sherlock's coat and button shirts dry-cleaned. Now that John thought about it, Sherlock would probably be rather irked that he'd washed his clothes at all. If Sherlock had made anything clear within the past few days it was that he only accepted help on his terms. Well, John thought with a smirk, he's not the one with the washing machine is he?

                A bit of color caught John's eyes as he moved the wet clothes out of the machine into the basket at his feet. A brownish rusty color stained the seat of one pair of pants and John's stomach shuddered as he realized it was blood. "Jesus," he said breathily.

                Not for the first time, John wondered how the young man upstairs in his shower, who was just barely an adult, could still be so absolutely vibrant, so excitable, so smart and witty, still have so much fight within him. He was struck with a sudden deep respect for Sherlock.

                "Because I'm not as thoroughly damaged as you'd think."

                John dropped the pants, quite startled by the unexpected guest. Sherlock would be the death of him. He turned around, hitting his hip on the machine in the process and stifled a groan. Sherlock stood on the steps leading down into the basement where his landlord kept the washer and dryer, clad in John's brown bathrobe. It, like the clothes he'd dressed Sherlock in earlier, was too big and too small for the thinner and taller man. When he'd dressed the sleeping Sherlock earlier he'd done so with efficiency and speed, wanting to get the shivering body out of the wet clothes as quickly as possible. Sherlock had looked smaller, more vulnerable. But now John wondered how he ever could have appeared so. The top of the robe was open, the large expanse of Sherlock's chest clearly visible to John. The dark fabric of his robe made Sherlock look as if he was glowing a bit.

                Why John thought Sherlock was small was beyond him. Sherlock was tall and thin. A stiff breeze could probably knock him over, but there was definitely muscle beneath that pale and bruised skin. He could see the hints of only slightly defined abs. From Sherlock's knees downward was also visible. John bristled as he realized how short he really was. Sherlock's legs were unfathomably long, and impressively lean. John had a sudden feeling like he was looking a bit too long and crossed his arms over his chest, dragging his eyes up to Sherlock's.

                 "Fuck, Sherlock. Would you like to make some noise next time? If you could stop apparating into and out of rooms that would be pretty delightful."

                Sherlock's brows pulled together in confusion. "Apparate? What's that?"

                It was John's turn to be confused. "You know. Apparate. Like in Harry Potter."

                "I never read those books."

                "What?"  
                "What what?"

                "You...you've never read Harry Potter?"

                "No. Is that surprising?"

                John considered the question. "No actually. It isn't that surprising for you. You should though. You'd like them."

                Sherlock's mouth pulled a bit in a condescending way, as if to say, 'if you say so.'

                "So what were you saying, before you scared me senseless?" John asked retrieving the dropped pants.

                Sherlock came down the last few steps and leaned against the wall, watching John move his clothes into the dryer. He opened his mouth but closed it before speaking. "Nothing. I have something I wanted to ask you, though, John."

                John snapped the door of the dryer closed, and turned it on. He picked up his own laundry before turning back to Sherlock and was surprised to see his fingers fidgeting ever so slightly. Odd. "What is it?"

                An urgent sounding knock from upstairs caused John's head to swivel to look up to where the sound was coming from. "Ah, just a moment. Mind taking these to my room while I get the door?" he asked shoving the basket into Sherlock's hands. John could hear Sherlock sigh in frustration and grumble something under his breath, and he smiled as he bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time. Whoever was at the door was getting a bit impatient.

                He swung the door open and was surprised to feel himself shoved out of the way and see a small body enter his flat. Nicole's eyes were wide and her hair was messily put up in a bun. She looked a wreck, if John was being completely honest. "Where is he?"

                Sherlock poked his head out of John's room and Nicole's jaw dropped as she rushed forward toward him. "Dear god, Evan, the Sims' have been searching everywhere for you. Christ, are you alright?" She didn't wait for an answer before spinning around to John and pointing a long finger at him.

                "Doctor Watson! Have you completely lost your mind? You realize I could have you arrested for kidnapping?"

                John drew back at that. "Kidnapping? I didn't kidnap him. I found him."

                "What time?"

                "I'm sorry?"

                "What time did you find him?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips. John suddenly felt like he was thirteen again and being scolded by his mother for failing an exam.

                "I believe it was around three this morning."

                "You should have called me right away, Evan needs to be in a home where he can be transitioned back into society smoothly. He's gone through a trauma. You do not have the qualifications to care for a teenage boy."

                Anger flashed across John's vision for a moment. "Look here, Sherlock is perfectly fine. If he wants to leave he may, but don't you dare act as if I am a threat to him. I've been the only one who actually gives a damn about him since the very beginning. So don't think you can walk into my home and act as if I am a danger to him."

                "'Sherlock'? Who the hell is Sherlock?"

                "That's his name! You never bothered to find out!"

                "Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up! Everybody just shut up!" John and Nicole swirled around to see Sherlock glaring at the both of them. His face was turning red quickly, the color inching down his neck. Nicole moved to place a hand on Sherlock's shoulder but John stopped her. He feared that touching Sherlock would end very very badly for all of them.

                "I want to stay here with John. I want him to be my guardian."

                "Now, Evan," Nicole said but stopped when she saw Sherlock's lips tilt into a snarl, "Sherlock," she corrected. "I don't think that is the best idea. I believe it would be inappropriate to have you and Doctor Watson cohabiting."

                "John is an adult, he lives in his own flat, and he has room for me here. What would be inappropriate?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

                Nicole sputtered for a moment, looking between the two men with the beginnings of a glare. "Sherlock, John is suffering through his own psychological problems at the moment. My professional opinion is that-"

                Sherlock cut off whatever her professional opinion was. "There is nothing wrong with John. And there is nothing wrong with me. John has put his arse out on the line for me more times than I actually find comforting. He has extending his aide to me and proven himself trustworthy and completely selfless in his endeavors. I cannot say the same for you. John's nightmares, of which I assume you are referring to when you say 'psychological problems', are rather typical result of military action. It is most certainly not your place to decide whether or not John is fully functional or not. As for myself, I'd quite appreciate if the lot of you people would stop saying trauma and simply spit out what you all are thinking."

                "Sherlock..." John said in a hushed voice.

                "No, John. They think that because I've been raped that I can't live a day of my life without breaking down in tears or having some sort of conniption. I assure you that I am not 'damaged goods'."

                At the word 'raped' John visibly shuddered.

                "I don't need pity," Sherlock spat. "I'm staying here."

                Sherlock left the room, not bothering to look back at either of them before slamming John's door in a bit of a childish display of emotion. John groaned a little under his breath and moved to follow him with Nicole called him back. "Doctor Watson, I am not finished with you."

                "No I believe you are," John said through a clenched jaw. "Sherlock needs to be with the person he trusts and feels comfortable around the most. And for some reason, that person is myself. I'll expect someone else to return shortly with the appropriate paperwork?"

                Nicole's dark brown eyes lit with something bordering rage. Her small, thin arms folded across her chest and she widened her stance as she looked down at the much shorter John Watson. "You think I don't see what you're doing, but I do, Doctor. Please. I might as well just call you 'John' and cut the 'doctor' nonsense. I know you're still in medical school. Recently discharged from military service, yes?"

                Malice seemed to gather like saliva in John's mouth.

                "You are a twenty two year old cripple, barely dragging yourself through medical school. You're living in this shabby flat, between your monthly checks from the military and your paid work at Bart's you can hardly afford school and your home. Another check from the government for taking in a foster child would help you out quite a bit wouldn't it? And, correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you are on temporary suspension from Bart's."

                "I beg your pardon?" John asked, completely blown away for a moment by Nicole's accusation.

                "You'll have to do more than beg, Doctor."

                A silence stretched between them. John narrowed his eyes at the older woman before his lips turned upward in a smirk that, given a different circumstance, would have been perhaps charming. John knew. He knew that this woman really had nothing on him. He'd given neither her nor the rest of the Social Services a reason to question Sherlock's safety or his own competency. "Get the hell out.”

                Nicole gave a small nod of her head and retreated toward the door, but stopped. "While I cannot keep Sherlock away from you, I can keep a close eye on both of you. Expect me to do so." She left, closing the door with an almost inaudible sigh.

\----------

                John had decided to give Sherlock a little while to calm down, but it had been at least forty minutes since he'd so much as heard the floorboards creek. A small piece of paranoia lodged in John's brain. Had Sherlock snuck out? John's flat was bedroom was on the second story of the building, but John definitely wouldn't put it past the younger man to use the bedroom in his window as a way of escape.

                John had been standing in front of his own bedroom window for at least three minutes already. Come on, Watson, you shot at people in a bloody desert for months at a time. You can't let a seventeen year old kid keep you out of your own room.

                He placed an unsteady hand on the doorknob and felt it turning and was suddenly face to face, well more accurately face to shoulder, with Sherlock. John was standing at an odd angle, his own hand still on the doorknob, so he was leaning in rather close to Sherlock. He could smell the traces of his own soap still on Sherlock's skin. Yes, he was indeed rather close. John released the doorknob as if it were hot iron and straightened himself. Sherlock had a book in his free hand. The one John had gotten him. He could see from where he stood that many of the pages were dog-eared and frayed. Small pieces of paper, serving as markers, stuck out of the book at all ends. Jesus, he'd only had the book for a day.

                "Um," John stuttered, not really knowing what to say. Sherlock gave him a quizzical look.

                John swallowed and tried again. "I wanted to let you know that...as long as you want to stay here...I will make sure you do."

                Sherlock just nodded and moved past John into the sitting room and plopped unceremoniously onto the sofa.

                "I see your shivers are mostly gone now," John said softly. Sherlock grunted something unintelligible an opened the book, to John's surprise, to the very first page.

                "Fancy some tea, then?"

                Sherlock didn't respond, he was fully enraptured in his book. John shrugged and made his way to the kitchen to set up the kettle. Once it had boiled and the tea had steeped, John reentered the sitting room and placed a cup of tea on the small coffee table in front of the sofa for Sherlock, in case he ended up wanting some tea a bit later.

                John settled himself in a cushioned seat adjacent to the sofa, the laundry basket set as his feet. He had some major work to catch up on. Since the beginning of this little...'adventure' was the most polite term he could give to his current situation, he'd fallen dangerously behind in his work. He had to prepare not just for the upcoming finals for medical school but the holiday season would, without a doubt, correlate with a huge increase in the amount of patients coming in to the clinic. Despite the fact that he'd been placed on temporary leave, both he and Sarah knew that all the manpower available would be needed for the rush. And he was a damn good doctor. Junior doctor, he reminded himself with a mixture of gratitude and something like anger. He really owed Sarah his soul at this point, for letting him even interact with patients. The only field experience he had was in Afghanistan, and he was just a goddamn medic, his job wasn't exactly to make people better, just keep them from dying. When Sarah had gotten him the job he knew, knew, she had stuck her neck out for him.

                "Oh dear god, what the hell is this?"

                Sherlock's outburst knocked John out of his small daydream. The dark haired man was holding his tea cup a few inches from his nose, smelling it suspiciously, with a face of obvious disapproval. With his face all scrunched up, Sherlock really looked like a child and it made John chuckle. "It's tea."

                "John, if this is what you call tea you should probably reevaluate your priorities as well as your British citizenship. This tastes like it's been inside the mouth of an avid tobacco chewer. Do you not own sugar?"

                That made John actually snort. "I don't take mine with sugar, but you can find some on the kitchen counter."

                "Get me some?"

                "Uh. No. I'm busy," he said, reaching down to begin folding.

                "John..."

                "Sherlock."

                John was rewarded with a heavy sigh as Sherlock walked to the kitchen, meant to convey irritation but it only made John grin.

                It was only a few minutes later that a shout from Sherlock made John jump clear out of his seat.

                "BORED!" he shouted harshly setting the book down on the coffee table and leaning back into the cushion to sulk a bit.

                John could only stifle a groan as he picked up a jumper from the basket and continued his folding.

\-----------------

                It took two days for someone from Social Services to get back to John. A man called Mr. Farnley had brought John the necessary paperwork as well as some run of the mill pamphlets on 'troubled youth'. He was, to John's surprise, considerably friendlier than Nicole had been.

                There had already been background checks, a psychological examination, now all he'd need to provide were some references. While Mr. Farnley had repeatedly assured John that he would do fine, John was a hair more than nervous at the prospect of qualifying as a guardian. Not that he really considered himself a father to Sherlock to begin with, but at the thought of Sherlock having to be dragged back to the Sims' home John's gut shuddered with worry.

                Sherlock wasn't one for sentiment, but the few times he'd seen John's brow crease with frustration or paranoia Sherlock would cock an eyebrow at the smaller man and say something that could only be described as a Sherlockian pep talk, mostly consisting of him calling John's worries stupid or, John's personal favorite, 'the result of cretintious thought'. By all rights, John really didn't know Sherlock that well, but he could tell in the way those long fingers would dance across any given surface, taping away an unrecognized rhythm, that he too was nervous.

                "What about Doctor Sawyer?" Sherlock said with a droll tone.

                John had honestly been impressed that he remembered Sarah's name at all. "I don't know," he said, "Sarah and I have some...awkward history."

                "John, just because you slept with her doesn't mean she can't provide a professional opinion of you."

                John colored at that. He supposed Sherlock was right. "Alright, fine. I still need one more recommendation."

                "Do you not have any sort of kin that would vouch for you that you're not some murderous fiend?"

                "No."

                "I find that I rather like your family."

                John smiled just a little at that. It was rare that Sherlock said anything with the intention of making John laugh. He was really trying to make John feel better.

                "Your sister?"

                "Absolutely not."

                "Is it because she's a drunk?"

                John sighed a little, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. "You know, I don't even want to know how you figured that out."

                "Mr. and Mrs. Watson are simply a phone call away, John."

                John frowned. That was completely out of the question. He had actually been going to lengths to avoid his parents' finding out about this. If they discovered their son was taking in the young man they would be livid. They knew just as well as John that he barely had enough money to sustain himself. He knew his parent's too well. They'd jump to stupid conclusions. John definitely didn't put it past them both to assume he and Sherlock were sleeping together.

                At that thought, John looked over at Sherlock who was lost in thought. He felt his cheeks heating up as he watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's thin frame. Sherlock's long fingers were busy picking at the wrapping around his right hand. "Sherlock," John said as a warning. He continuously picked at the bandaging.

                Sherlock's bright eyes met John's and he immediately realized his error, rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in resignation. "John, I'm _bored."_

Jesus, entertaining Sherlock was a full time job. John felt rather guilty because he couldn't take Sherlock anywhere. He couldn't be away from Sherlock for more than an hour; they couldn't leave the flat for more than a few hours at a time. Until everything was official, John and Sherlock were on a very short leash concerning what they could and could not do. He felt bad for Sherlock, he really did. He eyed Sherlock again. The stitches in his lip were ready to come out. From Sherlock's gradual increase in mobility, John would say that his ribs were getting better. The bruise around his eye had faded to a dull yellow. John smiled a bit to himself. Sherlock was a fighter in every respect.

                All the stress was wearing on both of them, though, and John suddenly found himself very in need of a drink. "I'm running to the shop for a moment," he said standing up and pulling his coat on. Sherlock's eyes shot open and he eyed John with a look he'd become accustomed to within the past two days. Whenever he left Sherlock alone in the flat it was that look. 'Wide-eyed concern' was the best description John could fathom.

                "Hey, it's fine," John said, fishing a few quid out of his wallet and setting it on the coffee table, "I'm leaving my wallet right here, I can't run off without my wallet, now can I?"

                Sherlock grumbled a bit and waved him away.

                "Need anything?"

                There was no answer.

                "Right then. I'll be back in twenty minutes. Don't touch the stove."

\------------------------

                John was slowly making his way up the stairs to his flat. He'd spent at least ten minutes trying to decide what drinks to buy. He was immensely hesitant to bring high grade liquor into his flat with Sherlock there. From what he'd seen, the younger man was highly accident prone, and having too many flammable substances in his home didn't bode well for either of them. And John most certainly didn't want to risk Sherlock getting drunk. If Mr. Farnley, or god forbid Nicole, found out he was bringing alcohol into his home with Sherlock without legal guardianship...well. He would definitely be in deep shit. He'd glumly settled for a pack of beer.

                On the way out of the shop, John's eye caught the cigarette display. As a man of medicine John abhorred the idea of buying Sherlock cigarettes. He hadn't smoked in a long time, since he began training almost four years ago, if he wanted to be precise. Maybe...in moderation it would be all right for Sherlock. It was obvious that he'd been craving them.

                So now, standing in the middle of the stairwell up to his flat, a pack of beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, he wondered what it was Sherlock could possibly be doing. Music was floating down through walls. He recognized the tune after a moment and suddenly felt his stomach drop.

                The door swung open and hit the adjacent wall with a thunk that was drowned out by the music filling the flat. Only the sound of John setting the shopping down made Sherlock aware of his return.

                "Twenty three," he called over the music. He wasn't sure if John heard him or not, but he _had_ been late. John was two minutes and eighteen seconds later than he'd first claimed, so he might as well round up. Sherlock was planted on the floor beside an old record player he'd plugged into the wall. A box filled with records was beside him, covered in dust, and two matching boxes were set aside. Currently 'Hey Jude' was playing and Sherlock seemed to be amazed by the old machinery and the way the record spun on the player.

                "Sherlock!"

                There was something in John's voice that Sherlock hadn't heard before and it made Sherlock rotate around to look at the older man. His fists were clenched tight, a bright red flush creeping up John's neck and ears. "Sherlock," he said again, "what in the hell are you doing with my records?"

                Sherlock's brows came together in confusion. John was mad. That was fairly new. Sherlock knew that he was possible for John to get angry but he'd certainly never been on the receiving end of that anger. He thought through what John could possibly be angry about but came up empty. "I found them. Thought I'd have a listen."

                "I keep those in my closet."

                "Yes. I do know how to properly operate a door, John."

                John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, obviously fighting to clam himself down a bit. "Sherlock, those are my private things, you do _not_ rifle through my belonging and then proceed to use them without asking. You could scratch the records or break the player!"

                Oh. The records. Sentiment? Probably.

                "I assure you, I know how to handle records."

                "That is not the fucking point!"

                Sherlock drew back, shocked at John's reaction. "John...I...I'm sorry. Your records are fine."

                "Put them back! NOW!" John bellowed down at Sherlock. And suddenly, Sherlock felt two inches tall. He was seven years old again, his knees scuffed, his clothes covered in dust and dirt, with tears streaming down his round cheeks as his father scolded him for god knows what. He jumped up, removing the needle from the 'Hey Jude' record and moving quickly to pick up the boxes and return them to John's closet. It was almost like his body was moving by itself. Sherlock _couldn't_ protest. _Couldn't_ say no.

                John immediately regretted shouting. The second the words left his mouth and he saw Sherlock's pupils blown wide in childlike fear he was sick at himself. He watched as Sherlock jumped back, utterly stunned, then spring into action. He watched Sherlock run, box under his arm, into his room and back again to repeat the action. "Sherlock..."

                Sherlock didn't hear John call him. It took John's hands wrapping around his angular shoulders to catch his attention. "Sherlock, look at me. It's okay. I shouldn't have shouted at you. I'm sorry."

                "John," he said, his voice a little shaken, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John. I won't mess with your things. I'm sorry. Please let me stay here. Don't make me go away."

                John's heart shuddered a bit at that. Sherlock's eyes locked on the floor in a rare display of embarrassment. "Listen to me, Sherlock. I told you that as long as you want to stay here I'll make sure you do so. I'm not going to send you away. I never will. I promised, yeah? And John Watson never breaks a promise."

                Sherlock mumbled something that John couldn't quite make out. "Say that again?"

                "I said you never promised."

                John tried to make his resulting smile look reassuring. "You're right. I didn't. But I promise now. Okay?"

                Those ice blue-green eyes met John's darker blue ones. The fear draining fast. John squeezed Sherlock's shoulder a bit before fishing into his pocket and retrieving the cigarettes. "I picked this up for you while I was out. Thought they'd help somehow."

                "I... Thank you, John."

                "Don't mention it. Now, how about you start that song from the start and relax? Does that sound good?"

                Sherlock didn't bother to correct John. He just nodded a bit, taking the pack of cigarettes in his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Dearies! I'm very sorry it took me so long to update! I finished up with my finals on Tuesday and have been working on this chapter for the past two days. But I made it extra long for you glorious people. I'm back at home for the holidays, and it's very likely that I'll update another chapter while I'm home.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! If you'd like to follow me on tumblr, my URL is QueriesofaQueer. (shameless self promotion)
> 
> Have a great holiday! See you lovelies soon.
> 
> REMEMBER! YOUR REVIEWS SUSTAIN ME!


	8. Chapter 8

John felt genuine sympathy for Sherlock. He could tell by the very obvious sulking he had done on the way to the metro that the younger man hated group therapy with all his might. And even more, he hated his biweekly meetings with Nicole. John hated those too, but there was little he could do but drag Sherlock to these meetings and put on the best smile he could for this woman until he heard back from social services.

                The leader of group therapy was a petite dark-skinned woman who had met with a few times already. She'd been particularly concerned about Sherlock's lack of interaction in group. He'd sit there every week for an hour, completely silent and detached from the rest of the group. John had tried to reassure her that it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. She'd given him a look. The meetings with Nicole went considerably better. Probably because he knew they had to stay in her good graces, John thought with a small grin. It had been about four days since he'd submitted all the necessary documents to be reviewed for guardianship. Mr. Farnley had smiled up at John from behind a smallish desk, assuring him that he'd hear back within the next few days. Nothing yet. And John was beside himself with nerves.

                A shifting beside him broke John out of his reverie. Sherlock mumbled something completely unintelligible, his head moving a little against John's shoulder as he slept. John imagined that they were quite a sight, the two of them leaning against one another while Sherlock took a little nap on the tube. John glanced down at him for a moment and smiled blissfully. He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what it was he was smiling about. Sherlock's bruised eye was completely healed, his ribs doing a lot better, and those stitches in his lip would need to come out that night. While he still wasn't regularly eating or sleeping, Sherlock was doing much better. John leaned his head into those dark curls and inhaled the smell of his own shampoo in Sherlock's hair. His mouth was open a little, so John could hear his breathy exhales, the peace in Sherlock's face was something John had not seen in Sherlock before.

                In the past few weeks since meeting this anomaly of a man, John had not often found time to relax and just breathe. But the sway of the cart, the steady rhythm of Sherlock's breath and the rise and fall of his chest, and the weight of his head against John's shoulder was calming in a way that would have alarmed John if he weren't so at ease. For a moment, everything was forgotten. There were no bills in post waiting to be paid. There was no problem with Sarah or his work at Bart's. There was no Nicole watching his every move. No finals he needed to study for. And there was no bloody guardianship battle going on. There was just John and Sherlock on the tube headed home after a long day. And John decided that that merited a bit of a smile.

* * *

                "Ah! Fuck, John!"

                John sighed and sat back with an amused chuckle. "If you'd just relax. It's not going to hurt. You're only making it worse on yourself."

                If looks could kill, Sherlock's glare would have set fire to John a long time ago. And John's little smirk wasn't helping. "Sherlock," he said finally, "I've got to remove the stitches."

                Sherlock's hand rose to cover his mouth. He knew he was being childish. But damn it all, he didn't care. He was grumpy and irritable, and he didn't fancy having sharp objects near his face. "Go away," he grumbled.

                John's smirk turned into a frustrated frown. Sherlock watched as John placed the scissors down on the coffee table. His body tensed for just a half second before John leapt over to him, wrestling to catch Sherlock's wrists in his hands. John was surprisingly strong. Sherlock grinned, the stitches tugging at his skin and tried his best to get leverage on the soldier. Using his foot he kicked John's legs out from under him, catching him just before his face came into contact with the table and pushing him against the upholstered chair adjacent to the sofa.

                "Give up yet, John?"

                John looked up at him, his blue eyes shining with enthusiasm. "Oh, you wish."

                John turned then, wriggling his way out of those thin arms. He finally managed to push Sherlock onto the sofa. Catching his wrists, he pulled his arms over Sherlock's head and pressed his forearm against his neck a bit. Their eyes met and for a moment there was silence. They just watched each other, allowing their breaths to come back to them. John hadn't realized that they were both panting from exertion.

                Sherlock's chuckle started slow. His chest rose and his lips curled into a smile. It resonated through the room, bright and loud and honest. And soon John was laughing too. Their chuckles morphed into hysterical giggles. John rolled off of Sherlock and onto the floor, holding his side and gasping for air. Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbow, laughing. Sherlock couldn't know how long it was that they sat there laughing like utter fools. He wasn't even quite sure he'd ever laughed like that. It wasn't until John's mobile rang across the room that they swallowed their chuckles.

                "Get that for me, you dolt," John said, wiping a few tears from his eyes, a small smile still on his lips.

                Sherlock rolled his eyes, standing and striding across the room. His smile vanished when he looked down at the number on the screen of John's mobile. "John," he said.

                John looked up and, seeing Sherlock's sudden serious demeanor frowned. "What's wrong?"

                "It's Mr. Farnley."

                Sherlock could practically see John's throat go dry. He handed the phone to John, but he didn't answer, he just stared at the mobile buzzing in his palm. Dear god, this man was ridiculous sometimes. Sherlock took the phone from John and answered it himself.

                He greeted Mr. Farnley with a polite 'hello' and 'how are you'. When he asked for John Sherlock had to place the phone against John's ear himself.

                A sudden weight dropped into Sherlock's stomach as he realized that this call was going to decide his future. Well technically, he supposed. There was no way he was going back to the Sims'. It was either John or Jim. At that thought a shiver crawled down Sherlock's spine.

                He couldn't hear Mr. Farnley speaking; only John's half of the conversation, which was extremely unhelpful, consisting of only okays and of courses. John even nodded, as if Mr. Farnley could see him. Sherlock grinned, finding it charmingly odd.

                "Yes, thank you very much, Mr. Farnley, good evening," John said placing his mobile back on the table. Sherlock looked him over.

                Hands clenching and unclenching. Biting his lip. Nervous? A slight tilt of the head. Maintaining eye contact. So no, not nervous. Excited.

                John had been approved.

                The deduction hit Sherlock like a bullet train, hard and fast and violently. He let out a shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "John," he scraped out.

                John smiled brighter than Sherlock thought possible. That smile of his, it could power all of London, he thought. "Yeah," John said.

                Sherlock was suddenly overcome with a realization that he didn't know what to say. A real first.

                "Are you happy?"

                Sherlock nodded, words still not coming to him. John's smile changed then, as if to say 'it's okay'.

                John pushed himself off the floor and made his way to the kitchen to begin preparing a drink for himself. "We'll clear out the storage room tomorrow, it'll be your room from now on."

                "John?"  
                "What?"

                "I... Thank you."

                "You are very welcome. Now," John said, with a snicker, "let's get rid of those stitches."

* * *

                The weeks that followed John's approval consisted mainly of cleaning, shopping, and still more cleaning. Sherlock was going mad with the monotony of it. Of course, he knew it was necessary, he only owned one shirt with actual sleeves and it was getting colder as the November turned into December.

                Sherlock now had a respectable wardrobe and his own bed. It was almost surreal. And living with John was even more so. The John had opened his mouth, Sherlock had been interested in the man. He was...odd. Sherlock was well aware that he greatly lacked people skills and he always had to some degree. While Sherlock felt quite comfortable with John, and he knew John felt the same, the very small, less logical part of his mind that had survived through childhood believed that one morning John would wake up and will have changed his mind. But that morning had yet to come.

                Every morning John stumbled out of his room, grunted Sherlock a greeting, and dragged himself to the bathroom to relieve himself. John was predictable but constantly surprising at the same time. After his initial reaction, John had agreed to let Sherlock listen to his records as long as he asked first. Sherlock had found a variety of music, ranging from 1960s rock and roll to classical music. John's was also much smarter than Sherlock had first given him for. While it was not the same degree of intelligence that Sherlock knew he possessed himself, John worked harder than any students he'd met while he was still in school. John had a powerful force of determination that Sherlock admired greatly. He didn't sleep much by design, but he'd stumbled upon his new guardian still awake in the early hours of the morning reading those boring textbooks and taking completely unintelligible notes. That stubbornness amused Sherlock endlessly.

                Despite Sherlock's best intentions he'd grown rather...attached to John. He supposed they were friends now. But there was a small tingling in his belly that Sherlock found extremely annoying. Attraction, he thought. Sherlock's face contorted like he'd tasted something bitter.

                How pitifully dull.

                Sherlock found himself disappointed that he, of all people, should attach himself to someone so quickly. How starved for companionship was he that he should bind himself to the first thing on legs to treat him with the smallest ounce respect and worth? Physically, John was remarkably run-of-the-mill. But Sherlock had seen, on more than one occasion the looks that women and men alike would send the medic's way. They flocked to him like moths to a beacon. John had a certain charm, a way of speaking and carrying himself that made people like his company. And Sherlock was thoroughly frustrated that he was not immune to it.

                Sherlock had found himself really enjoying the intimacy that he and John shared. He enjoyed making John laugh, even if it was at his expense. He enjoyed the feeling that John's hand left behind whenever the older man would slap his shoulder, or the tingling after their fingers brushed over one another when John handed him a cup of tea. In the past few days, John had introduced a new type of physical stimulation that Sherlock had discovered he liked. A lot. The first day John had done it was two days after John had been granted custody. They'd been cleaning out the storage room, or at least trying to. A box filled with some photo albums had caught Sherlock's attention. John had approached Sherlock with a grin on his face, telling him to get back to work and had placed a hand in Sherlock's hair, running through the curls a few times before playfully shoving him and returning to his own box of goodies. Sherlock had leaned into the warmth of John's hand without hesitation. Without even thinking.

                "Sherlock!"

                John's shout brought Sherlock out of his thinking. He tilted his head back far enough to look at his 'guardian' upside-down. John's dark, thigh-length coat made his hair look lighter than normal. He was in the process of unbuttoning his coat when he gave Sherlock a small frown. "I said your name three times, are you all right?"

                "Fine. I was in my mind palace."

                John chuckled a bit, throwing his black gloves onto the kitchen counter. "Mind palace? And what is that?"

                "A memory technique. I learned it from my brother. You imagine a building of sorts. Place memories in different rooms. As long as I can find my way back to the room, I can retrieve the memory."

                Sherlock watched as John stilled and immediately realized his error. "You have a brother, then?" John said, trying, and failing, to sound nonchalant.

                Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit and plopped back into his original laying position. "Had."

                "Oh," John muttered, coming round to sit in his chair. "What were you thinking about?"

                "You."

                John colored at that and Sherlock couldn't help but think that the pink in his skin made John's neck suddenly look tasty. "So I have a room in your brain hotel, then?"

                John grinned at the fiery look he got from his friend.

                "Mind. Palace."

                "Whatever. So I've got a room?"

                Sherlock pointedly ignored the question. "Where are we going?"

                John groaned, throwing his arms into the air with gusto. "How in the hell do you do that?"

                Sherlock shrugged. "Not hard really. Anyone who isn't a total idiot can figure simple things like that out."

                "Oh yeah. Thanks for that."

                "Quite."

                That made John's lips twitch with the hits of a smile and a warm sense of accomplishment rippled through Sherlock's chest. "I thought we might be able to have a proper celebration tonight, since we've spent the past two weeks cleaning."

                "Oh."

                "Only if you want to, of course. I'll take you out to dinner and we can relax a bit. Just a small Indian restaurant a few minutes away." John added.

                Sherlock's stomach answered for him, gurgling with hunger. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten anything of real substance in two days. "I think that would be bearable."

                John's resulting grin was infectious and Sherlock found himself smirking as well. They stood, donning coats, scarves, and gloves before strolling out of the flat, John jogging a bit to keep up with his long-legged friend. The wind hit both of them hard and John shivered, flipping the collar on his coat up. He looked over at Sherlock, whose collar was also turned up, and John couldn't help but feel slightly inadequate for just a moment. Sherlock looked like he belonged on a goddamn billboard. All his sharp cheekboned and bright eyed glory. And he was so young too. John knew he was mildly attractive, he was in the best shape he could be in, dressed well. But Sherlock had an almost supernatural beauty to him that frustrated John endlessly. He'd catch himself just watching Sherlock as the younger man sat motionless on his sofa, lost in thought, and wonder 'how?’

                Sherlock was speaking quickly, but the words were just bouncing off of John as he stared up at Sherlock. There was a freckle high on Sherlock's neck, just below his jaw, that John had never noticed before. He wondered what it tasted like. At that though John stopped walking. What in the hell was wrong with him? He was supposed to be Sherlock's guardian. Sherlock trusted him and John refused to fuck this up. He wasn't about to make Sherlock's life harder than it had already been.

                "John?"

                Sherlock had stopped when he realized John wasn't beside him. He turned back, walking back to where John had stopped. "What is it?"

                Colored cheeks. Blushing? He might just be cold. Slack jaw, disbelief. Sherlock didn't have enough data to deduce what John was thinking. He smirked, John was getting better at avoiding Sherlock's deductions.

                Movement in the corner of Sherlock's eye caught his attention. Between two shops was a small alley, lined with bins, and peeking out of that alley was a face. Big brown eyes locked right on Sherlock, and he could have sworn felt his heart drop in his chest, despite him knowing it was completely impossible.

                John saw a sudden change in Sherlock, something like shock and fear blended together.

                "Sherlock, are you o-"

                The rest of his sentence went unheard. Sherlock walked passed him toward the alley and disappeared around its corner. John called after him, but the younger man ignored him. He gave a resigned sigh but a yelp of pain made John's skin jolt and he sprinted down the alley after him.

                "Sherlock! What are you doing?!"

                Sherlock had a man pressed against the brick wall of one of the shops, a fist curled into the collar of the man's sweatshirt and the other gripping a red knit hat that John could tell belonged to this mystery man that was wildly squirming in Sherlock's hands. After a few more moments of thrashing the man finally spoke.

                "Sherlock," the man croaked, "it's alright, mate, it's me."

                "Wait a second. You two know each other?"

                The man looked over at John with a scowl. "Yeah, what's it to you?"

                Sherlock's face was hard and his jaw was clenched tightly. It looked like he was holding his breath. John looked between the two. Could this be...? "Sherlock," John said calmly, trying his damndest to get him to calm down, "breathe."

                It seemed to work. Sherlock exhaled loudly, dropping the man and taking a step back and running his free hand through his hair. He turned to him with a sneer. "Where the hell have you been?"

                "Sher-"

                "No, shut up."

                John was thoroughly confused as to what he was witnessing. It was as if he was watching a show on the telly, he'd become the audience.

                The man's disheveled brown hair rustled as a breeze drifted through the alley. "Sherlock," he said, "I've missed you."

                "Please," Sherlock said with a dry chuckle.

                And then, the man did something that made John's eyes blow wide with shock. He stepped forward and pulled Sherlock's thin frame against him, enveloping him in an embrace that seemed a bit too intimate to just be a hug between mates. And even more to his surprise, Sherlock's long lanky arms slowly rose to return the embrace, clutching the man as if he were about to vanish.

* * *

                Dinner had been...awkward, to say the least. John had insisted that Sherlock's...friend...join them for dinner but he had declined, saying had previous engagements. Sherlock hadn't pushed the issue, only scribbled their address on a scrap of tissue, shoving it into the man's hands before turning and dragging John out of the alley. They'd eaten in silence. John decided not to ask about their encounter. John was just thankful that Sherlock still had an appetite afterwards. But he was definitely curious.

                Who was that man? And who was he to Sherlock? Why hadn't they seen each other recently? Should he be worried about Sherlock's safety?

                John realized he'd read the same line of the news article in his hands three times and tossed the paper aside, deciding a cuppa was in order. He moved to the kitchen, setting up the kettle and his teacup. John turned to grab a teabag but ran right into Sherlock, his nose knocking against Sherlock's chest.

                "Jesus, Sherlock, will you make some goddamn noise when you enter a room? I swear, I'm going to have to tie a bell around your neck."

                When Sherlock didn't respond with his normal annoyed sigh or grumble John looked up at him curiously. "You alright, then?"

                "You have questions."

                The kettle boiled and John turned, rolling his eyes. So dramatic.

                He poured his tea and took a seat at the kitchen table and motioned for Sherlock to join him.

                "Of course I have questions," John said, smiling softly at Sherlock. "But I don't want this to be an Inquisition. I want you to tell me what's going on, I don't want to pry it out of your mouth." He paused stirring his still steeping tea in the teacup.

                "I'm not going to force you to do anything. Ever. I hope you know that."

                "His name is Victor." Sherlock sat back a little in his chair and met John's eyes.

"Victor Trevor. He was a...friend, I suppose you could say. We met a few days after I was..." Sherlock stopped, searching for the right word. He couldn't find one. "Our 'boss' would send us out in pairs at first. That's how we met. Victor and I went everywhere together."

                "Were you...I mean...," John stuttered, not really knowing how to phrase his inquiry.

                "Yes, we were having intercourse," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

                "Did you love him?" It was just over a whisper. John could feel his palms becoming sweaty.

                Sherlock snorted, "Oh please, be realistic. Victor was...a constant. Someone I could talk to and who would talk to me, who wouldn't make me feel alone."

                John's brows furrowed together for a moment and adjusted his grip on his teacup. It was growing cold. "He loved you."

                "Yes."

                A silence stretched between them. This conversation was slowly creeping into a zone that John knew was none of his business, but he still had so much to ask. Choosing his words carefully, he spoke. "Why did you sleep with him if you knew you didn't reciprocate his feelings?"

                Sherlock shifted on his hips, crossing his legs under the table. "He claimed to love me, and he was the only one who seemed to be able to keep me relatively sane. He provided a small sense of normalcy. I didn't want to be alone."

                "You thought he'd leave?"

                Sherlock's lips twitched. "You cannot know what it is like to live like that, John. Constantly wanting to leave but not being able to. Waiting endlessly for a brief opportunity at freedom, even if that's just ten minutes between clients to take a cold shower. We cherished those moments. If given the chance, many would run. Those who were less dependent on...recreation, anyway. I...couldn't leave. Victor could."

                "But if he loved you, like you said, he wouldn't leave you behind," John said.

                Sherlock fished into the pocket of his trousers fishing out a cigarette and book of matches. "My impression exactly."

                John frowned and reached across the table to snatch the cigarette from between Sherlock's lips. "You had one already today." A slow realization came over John as he watched Sherlock scowl at him. "You were using sex to keep him there."

                "Yes."

                "Did you enjoy it?" The question was out of John's mouth before he could even think and was suddenly drowning in a wave of his own embarrassment.

                Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him but uttered a small but precise "No."

                "Why not?"

                "I would rather have left my work at work. He claimed to care for me, but demanded intercourse for him to stay. Why would enjoy sex if it's being used to manipulate me?"

                "But," John said slowly, his gears turning, "he left anyway?"

                "He saw his opportunity to run and took it. After he left, my boss became very...careful with me. Instead of working streets, I took care of house calls."

                John let out a breath and closed his eyes. He suddenly had the urge to pull Sherlock into his arms, to wipe away all that sadness and frustration and anger. Sherlock was hurting, constantly, and John couldn't stop it. He had no fucking clue what to do.

                "John, are you _crying?"_

To his surprise, he was. John smeared the few tears away and tried to smile at his friend. "Yeah, 'suppose am."

                "I...don't understand."

                "It's called compassion, Sherlock," John said with a chuckle. He stood, moving into the sitting room and plopping onto the sofa. Sherlock padded behind him but didn't sit, instead he stood over John, looking down at him. "When you care for someone," John said, "truly care for someone, you feel their sadness, their pain, you feel their joy.

                "You cry for them and with them. You get excited about things they get excited for."

                Sherlock looked at John with a scandalized expression that made John grin. "You...'care' for me, then?"  
                "Of course, I do. You're more than just a kid off the street. You are my friend, Sherlock."

                Sherlock was silent, his eyes bigger than normal, his pupils blown wide and his fingers fidgeting at his sides. They stared at each other for a while longer before Sherlock dashed off too John's room. John was about to call after him, annoyed that he'd stormed into his room without asking again when Sherlock returned, a small book in his large hand. He tossed at John who caught it reflexively. "What's this?"

                "That would be a book, John," Sherlock said sitting beside the older man on the sofa, "inside there are words on pages and you read them and you learn things, a bit like a movie for your mind." At that, they both broke into chuckles. John turned the book over in his hand.

                "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone?" John asked, surprised.

                "Shut up and read to me," Sherlock said, laying down in his side, his head resting against John's thigh and his legs curled to fit onto the rest of the sofa. John's hand found its place in Sherlock's curls, just as Sherlock hoped it would and hummed in approval.

                John was breathless for a moment, his heart accelerating, and his cheeks heating a little. The curls soft and surprisingly bouncy against his hand. He ran his fingers through the dark hair and was pleasantly amused with they bounced right back to their original position. He felt Sherlock shove his thigh a bit, urging him to begin reading.

                "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I'm so fucking lazy, I'm so sorry guys. This chapter was halfway done like around Christmas and I just finished it. But I send endless thanks to everyone who sent me motivators during the break! You guys are absolutely wonderful. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! A little Victor Trevor for you all. He'll be back soon. Thank you again to everyone who as read my fic!
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on tumblr, my URL is QueriesofaQueer.
> 
> Remember, YOUR REVIEWS SUSTAIN ME.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was wide awake when the sound of John's groans seeped through the wood doors across the main sitting room and into his own room. He was sitting on his bed, one of John's old textbooks spread across his lap and lost in its pages. John's groans didn't register at first, but after a few moments Sherlock recognized the pained sounds and slowly rose from his bed. It wasn't until he heard John scream that Sherlock had sprinted across the small flat and ripped the door open so that it hit the wall behind it.

                John was afraid. In danger. Had Jim found them? Had he hurt John? The thought made Sherlock's stomach turn and his blood boil. But when Sherlock stood looking into John's bedroom he was greeted by a sight that knocked the wind out of his lungs.

                John was in the center of his bed, the duvet pushed onto the floor. His body was curled in on itself and every muscle seemed to be shaking.

                "John?" Sherlock had said.

                John's head shot up, his eyes bloodshot and something like pain on his face before he'd shouted, screamed would be a more accurate description, for his friend to leave. The loudness made Sherlock jump. He could tell in a second that John had had a nightmare. That much was obvious. What the nightmare was about? Well he could only give an intelligent assumption.

                "Fuck, Sherlock, can you get out?" John said, his voice shaking just a bit.

                "No." Sherlock would be damned if he left John to grovel in his own misery. He had no earthly idea what he could do, but he wasn't about to go back to reading a textbook in his room.

                John was silent a moment but eventually turned to face that tall wisp of a man leaning against his doorjamb. He looked...rather gallant with his silhouette highlighted by the light coming from Sherlock's room. Those long legs, that John swore went on forever, were crossed in the most blasé way it was actually irritating him. But his body was tense, and his skin was sticky even though the flat was freezing, and his fingers were shaking with the aftermath of the nightmare. He turned away from Sherlock in defeat, lying on his side trying to slow his breathing. He heard Sherlock close the door and slink into his room, and he felt the dip of his bed as he sat on the other side.

                Sherlock looked down at John, who looked unbelievably small curled up without a blanket. He wasn't sure whether he should reach out to try to comfort John with physical contact or try to get him to talk about his nightmare. "John," he began, "I understand that -"

                "Don't. Please." John's voice was hard and spoken through a clenched jaw. Sherlock decided, with a guilty swell of relief to heed John's suggestion. A silence filled the room. John was too wired to go to sleep, Sherlock could tell by the tension coiled between his shoulders, the loose t shirt he wore bunched between the blades. This was certainly not the first time John had had a nightmare or flashback in his presence, but none before now had relished such a violent reaction. He supposed it had a lot to do with John going back to work. Now that he was back working at the clinic, running on just a few stolen hours of sleep between studying, filing paperwork, and making sure Sherlock didn't set fire to a lampshade or spend the entire stock of their pantry on funny little experiments. Sherlock looked over John's smallish body at the clock. It was four in the morning. John would have to wake up in just two more hours to begin preparing for work.

                John was still shaking, but it had a bit more rhythm to it now. As if he was crying. Sherlock suddenly felt entirely overwhelmed by the situation. Of course, he'd comforted Mycroft when they were young, but he'd be a child, acting on impulse. Sherlock couldn't just curl up beside John and watch him sleep. He was not well versed in social norms, but he was sure that watching-your-friend-sleep was not on the list of acceptable practices. Well, he thought stubbornly, I'll just not watch him.

                Sherlock reached over John, all but startling him out of his own skin to grab the fallen duvet. In the process, Sherlock felt his chest touch against John's waist and immediately angled himself so their bodies wouldn't be touching. He did not in any way want to trigger John into another episode by touching him. So instead, he draped the thick duvet across John who instantly moved to pull it tight around him. Satisfied that John would not be too cold now, Sherlock toed off his shoes and laid as near to the opposite edge as possible. He wasn't tired and didn't plan on sleeping, but he'd stay until John dozed off again.

                Sherlock had begun reciting the periodic table in his head when he felt John's back bump against his own. He recoiled away from the touch, scooting a bit further toward the mattress's edge, but John's body followed

                "Will you quit scooting away from me?" John muttered, clearly annoyed, "I'm trying to stay warm in this freezing flat. If you're going to sleep in my bed, might as well keep me from catching pneumonia."

                "John, pneumonia is caused by a pathogen, like bacteria or a virus. You can't catch it from being cold." Sherlock was sure John had heard his eyes roll.

                "Shut it."

                And he did. John's back pressed and molded against his own as he began to drift into a tense sleep.

                Sherlock realized, suddenly, that this was the first time in a long time he'd shared a bed with anyone other than a client. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this revelation.

                When John woke the next morning he was alone. But Sherlock's impression was still in the sheets, and so was his warmth and scent.

* * *

 

                "Watson, we need your help out here," a nurse called, poking her head into the room and disappearing just as quickly.

                John let out a very unprofessional groan, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and shooting Mrs. Powers an apologetic glance. It had been a busy week, long hours and rowdy patients were making the season incredibly hard to deal with. It was around Christmas when peoples' stupidity ran the highest. He'd had patients suffering from a "funny cough" to a ruptured appendix to a boy who'd swallowed some magnets on a dare in the past two weeks and it was driving him mad. After much begging and ass-kissing on his part, Sarah finally agreed to let John work as an ER nurse. He'd always preferred the ER to clinic. More action, more madness, less mundane. And that's exactly what he needed now that his nightmares were creeping back into his life. They weren't nightly occurrences; they'd averaged out around two a week. And each time since that first nightmare, he'd open his eyes, fear and anger and rage still coursing through him along with adrenaline, and see Sherlock's long body in his doorway. He'd say nothing, just waiting until John silently nodded him into the room, then crawl into bed with John. Most nights Sherlock would lie on his side, staring at the wall and John would watch Sherlock lie there, so small yet so…so big, occasionally run a few fingers through that thick black hair before turning over himself and going back to sleep. And other nights Sherlock would watch John watch him. At first it was unnerving, the mutual staring, John had pointedly tried, and failed, to focus on anything other than Sherlock, resulting in Sherlock's dark eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. John eventually gave up and just stared right back. Hell if Sherlock had no grasp of what was socially acceptable, why should he? He didn't remember falling asleep.

                They didn't talk about the nightmares. They didn't talk about Sherlock coming to his room. And Sherlock made sure to leave before John woke. It was a silent agreement between them. John wasn't particularly sure he had anything to say about it anyway, though he was alarmingly aware of how his pulse slowed then sped back up at seeing Sherlock in his doorway, illuminated by a light from somewhere else in the flat, how his skin would heat up whenever their feet accidently brushed against each other beneath the duvet, or his throat would suddenly go dry when he felt Sherlock's back touched his.

                Thinking about it now John realized how fucking weird it was. But they were friends he supposed. Mates didn't just jump into each other's beds in the middle of the night. But Sherlock wasn't your run of the mill 'mate'. John supposed, given Sherlock's bizarre...personality, he supposed he couldn't expect a lot of 'normal' in his life anyway.

                "John! Now, please!"

                John jumped out of his reverie, assuring Mrs. Powers that he'd be only a moment, before jogging out to the lobby.

* * *

 

                When John entered the morgue he was greeted with a sound that was now very familiar to him. Sherlock's silky humming echoed in through the lab, sending the tune of Lodi bouncing off the walls and reverberating through the floors. He didn't spot Sherlock right away but grinned at the sound of his humming. Sherlock had taken a keen interest in his old records. That had really surprised John. He hadn't expected Sherlock to have similar tastes in music, though in all fairness, Sherlock was constantly surprising him.

                When John had first returned to work, Sherlock had blown up his mobile with calls on the hour complaining of boredom. John had genuinely felt sorry that Sherlock had to stay locked up in the flat, he had vehemently protested Sherlock venturing out of the flat without John for fear that he'd be recognized by a human trafficker. Sherlock, on the other hand, had grumbled and groaned, telling John that he was being "asinine". After much negotiation, John had gotten Sarah to agree to allow him to bring Sherlock to the hospital while he worked.

                At first it had been...frustrating. Sherlock had sat in while John saw his patients, making one woman burst into tears when he deduced that her husband had been having an affair with the babysitter. Since then Sarah had granted Sherlock free roam of the hospital, but when he discovered the morgue that afternoon he'd decided that nowhere in the hospital could be more interesting. The morgue director was a man named Dr. Vernon, an old wrinkly man from Yorkshire who consistently spoke in various shouts and groans and was notorious for being 'crotchety'. John had worried that Dr. Vernon would absolutely loathe Sherlock but quite the contrary the old man had been delightfully pleased with Sherlock's company, finding the younger man witty and intelligent. John had never been more relieved.

                In addition to Dr. Vernon, Sherlock had also found company in his young intern, Molly. John had met her before. She was nice. A bit mousy and quiet, but pleasant to be around. She was near John's age, though he didn't know exactly how old Molly was. John chuckled to himself, remembering walking in one evening to see Molly simply gushing over Sherlock, who was in the middle of a heated discussion with Dr. Vernon over the relevance of pop culture knowledge. When John asked Sherlock about Molly later back at their flat Sherlock had lifted his head out of the book in his lap and asked "who is Molly?"

                Poor girl.

                Sherlock's face poked out from around the corner and when he saw John looking around the morgue his eyes lit up. It was like Christmas, and John felt his chest tighten a bit at the sight. Oh right. Christmas. That's what he was down here for.

                "John, I'm glad you're here, come quickly, look at this," Sherlock said in a rushed and breathy voice. John smiled and complied, walking around the corner to the table where Sherlock was spread about. His smile faded though when he saw at least twelve different packs of cigarettes spread across the table, and one cigarette from each pack lined up beneath its respective packaging.

                "Sherlock, did you buy all these cigarettes?"

                "Well I didn't steal them."

                John groaned. "Why?"

                "Well because I had money. You see, John, currency can be traded for goods and services in this fine nation."

                John couldn't help when a little smirk touched his lips, "oh shove off, you know what I mean."

                Sherlock explained that he was examining the different types of ash formed from the cigarettes, recording his findings. The word 'monograph' popped up a few times but by then John had completely checked out of the conversation. Sherlock was not easily winded, so John knew he'd better stop him while he was ahead.

                "Yes, that's very nice, Sherlock, but we've got more pressing matters that I'd like to discuss with you."

                Sherlock's excited smiled turned down into a pout that John could only describe as adorable. His lips pressed together in a way that clearly read 'irritation'.

                Focus, Watson.

                "Christmas is next week, you know."

                "No, John. I'd had no idea. It's almost like it comes round every year at the same time."

                John exhaled loudly but said nothing. He supposed he should have expected that smart arse remark, though he knew Sherlock hadn't actually realized that the holiday was coming up. The little liar.

                 "Yes well, my family's got a bit of a tradition. We all meet at my parents on Christmas Eve for dinner and some drinks."

                Sherlock grunted a response that clearly told John he was barely listening.

                "Well, I'd like you to come with me. You know. To meet my family."

 

                Oh. Well. That wasn't really what Sherlock had expected. The thought of spending his holiday with John's family wasn't exactly appealing. While Sherlock knew the societal traditions of Christmas, gifts, drinking, food, music, etcetera, he hadn't had Christmas like that since before his father died. Or shot himself. Whatever.

                The Holmes' holiday celebrations typically consisted of a bit of fighting with Mycroft, some music requested by their mother, and an evening dinner. No parties. No decorations. No caroling.

                "I suppose I could endure it," Sherlock finally said.

                "You don't have to, you know."

                "I know."

                "You actually want to go, then?"

                "No. But isn't this the season of giving?" Sherlock said with a sigh, as he went back to his experiment.

                “Giving? What exactly do you plan on giving?”

“John,” Sherlock said, “my presence is not something I just let anyone have.”

That conceited dick. There was a moment of silence as John shifted nervously on his legs. "Sherlock I want to let you know that they may come off a bit..."

                "Crass?" Sherlock tried, looking up when John couldn't find a word.

                "Yeah. A bit. They are an old fashioned bunch."

                Sherlock just nodded. There was an interesting sense of awkwardness between them today and Sherlock couldn't put his finger quite on it. He turned back to the cigarette he'd been examining before with furrowed eyebrows.

                "What would you like?"

                Sherlock looked up again, confused. "I'm...sorry?"

                John leaned against the table. "You know, for Christmas. What would you like?"

                 Despite what Nicole thought, the monthly checks barely helped John. Hell, most of the money didn't even go to John. His 'guardian' only took out a small amount for food and the tube, but everything else he gave to Sherlock. If he contacted Mycroft, he'd be able to receive enough money to allow John quite a bit more financial comfort, but that was definitely not going to happen. Sherlock didn't particularly care that he was being selfish in that respect. In fact he figured he'd earned it after the lot of shit Mycroft had caused him to have.

                Sherlock decided it was best if he just ignore John's question completely.

                The realization that he needed to actually get a gift for John had not occurred to him until this moment. It wasn't really that he felt obligated, but he truly wanted to give John something. The medic had picked him up off the street, taken him into his home, given him food and clothes and his very own bed and had rarely asked for anything in return.

                "I'm clocking out, are you coming home now or are you going to catch a cab?" John was on the verge of collapse and simply couldn't wait around any longer while Sherlock fiddled with a tobacco ash.

                Sherlock felt a little bit of a rush when John said 'home'. It was interesting. He'd come to associate that word with that sprawling estate, with the sound of his brother's retching, with the sight of his father's blood thrown against the study wall. Even with the smell of his blood on semen stained sheets and the sing-song voice of one Jim Moriarty. But the flat was his home now, he supposed. And the more Sherlock thought about that the more it seemed...well, rather good.

                "You go. I'd like to catalogue a few more samples before I leave."

                John shrugged, reached out, giving Sherlock's bicep a soft squeeze, and left. Sherlock watched the older man leave, his limp a bit more pronounced from a long day's work. He felt something bubble up inside of his chest that smelt a bit like affection and Sherlock immediately scoffed.

                "Wipe that smitten little smile off your face, Holmes, you're sullying my lab."

                Sherlock hadn't realized he'd been grinning like a damned fool until Dr. Vernon’s outburst. He hadn't even noticed the man walk in. He was getting rusty. "Good evening, doctor."

                Doctor Vernon grinned and approached Sherlock, looking over his shoulder and examining the cigarettes spread across the table.

                "So," he began, "you and Mr. Watson?"

                Sherlock forced out a chuckle. "Oh please, I do not have time for such trifles," he said, pointed looking at the doctor's wedding ring.

                "I was unaware you thought of John as a 'trifle'," the doctor teased. He turned and bumbled over to the coolers. "I don't see why you kids are so thick."

                Sherlock remained silent. He knew that the doctor had only been poking fun but he pouted all the same.

Hell, he'd even venture to say that he occasionally enjoyed the teasing. But the idea that John was a trifle? That was simply ludicrous. John was...well he was just John. He was warm and quiet but also loud and exceedingly frustrating at times. John was complex to a point that Sherlock found rather fascinating, but he was also a simple man. He was a lot of things but a 'trifle' certainly wasn't one.

                "I've got a new arrival, if you'd like to help. He'll be down in just a moment."

                That certainly perked Sherlock up. He hadn't been allowed to sit in on an autopsy before. He nodded excitedly and went to glove his hands. Doctor Vernon chuckled softly behind him, but the sound was lost on Sherlock. The doctor started mumbling some safety protocol to Sherlock but he was only half listening. Sherlock wouldn't be able to actually make any incisions or poke around in the body, but, what was the phrase? Oh yes, beggars can't be choosers.

                The door opened then and two men toting the bagged body on a gurney came in, greeting the doctor cordially. There was an exchange of pleasantries and some paperwork that Sherlock ignored, his focus completely devoted to the corpse he knew was sitting in that body bag.

                "So," Dr. Vernon said with a very _very_ small grin as the two men left, "ready, Holmes?"

                Sherlock nodded just a tad too excitedly. The doctor took a quick glance at his young apprentice, who had his long fingers steeped against his lips, waiting none too patiently for him to open the body bag. He unzipped the bag purposefully slowly, chuckling just once when he heard Sherlock's sigh of exasperation.

                Sherlock watched as the corpse hair, then face, neck, torso, genitals, thighs, calves, and feet became visible. He'd intended on examining each section of the body starting with the head, but chest caught his eye. It was gruesome, that much was plain to the naked eye. Sherlock supposed most people would find the sight unsettling, but he was rather...fascinated. He raised one gloved hand and ghosted his fingers over the chest, across which a message had been carved into the pasty skin. There was a considerable amount of blood that had smeared and dried across his skin, reaching toward the corpse's abdomen.

                So he'd been alive when they'd done it. Interesting.

                "Are you alright, Holmes?"

                Sherlock looked up at Doctor Sheehan and gave a small nod. "Neat."

                The doctor groaned at him. "His name is Colin Wakefield. Age: twenty-one. He was found bleeding out in a parking garage and was brought in and died a few minutes later.”

                “From blood loss?”

                “No,” Dr. Vernon said, a smirk in his voice.

                Sherlock looked up from the cadaver. “No? What’s the cause of death?”

                “Heart attack.”

                Sherlock paused, a confused expression on his face. "Heart attack? At twenty one?" The man on the slab before them both was not particularly in the best shape of his life, but he certainly didn't appear to be at risk of any heart problems because of his physicality. He was thin. Not exactly lanky, but not very toned either.

                "Yes, it's particularly odd. Paired with the lovely message the killer carved into his chest, this one is likely to cause a bit of a stir in the media."

                Sherlock looked back at the note again. It was simple and to the point.

                'Hello, Deary.'

                Sherlock smirked. How fun. It was a bit slanted toward one side, not very neatly written. It'd been done with a very sharp instrument; the cuts were clean, a bit shaky though. Whoever had done it had done so with trepidation.

                Colin Wakefield…

                Sherlock felt his gut become heavy.

_Oh_. The shit that broke his ribs and gave him a concussion. Well, he had wanted it at the time. Wakefield, while stupidly irritating and with an offensively poor grammar, didn’t really strike Sherlock as a target for any good reason. Wakefield was the kind of man who would surround himself with people at all times. Constantly needing affirmation from others, attention, people to exalt himself to.

It was odd. Sherlock locked it away in his mind palace, labeling the room “Cases”, deciding to go back to it later. More interesting things were at hand.

                "Well lad, I suppose we'd best get to it. Grab a mask and a scalpel for me, please," Dr. Vernon said in a chipper voice. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only one a tad excited about the autopsy.

* * *

 

                John leaned back into the sofa, his gaze drifting around the flat, and smiled. After much griping and complaining, he’d gotten Sherlock to agree to help him decorate the flat. They’d strung white Christmas lights around the window and along the ceiling boards, Sherlock groaning about how silly it was. John had managed to find a small enough tree and erected it on top of the coffee table. Popcorn tinsel and a few leftover strings of lights decorated it.

                Sherlock had said it still look empty and dashed into John’s room, without permission again. He emerged just a few seconds and muted thuds later with John’s beret and placed it on the tiny tree’s top. It had made John chuckle but he nodded approvingly all the same. Their little tree had eventually gotten one of Sherlock’s scarves, a red fleece one, added to it since that afternoon. It was pitiful, but John couldn’t help but grin looking at it.

The week leading up to Christmas Eve dinner with his family had passed so much faster than John had anticipated. I only felt like a few hours ago that he'd called his sister, telling her he was bringing a guest.

                "Oh, you're bringing a plus one? What's her name?" Harry had half-teased.

                "Shut it," John grumbled, "just make sure mum and dad have an extra place set."

                "Oh do tell me you'll be dressing to match, Johnny."

                "Fuck you," John said with a laugh, the image of he and Sherlock strolling into his mum's with matching suits was a bit much for him.

                But that phone call was four days ago. Since then he'd been bombarded with calls and texts from his mother and father, who were both flying under the assumption that he was bringing a woman. He'd tried, desperately, to emphasize the fact that he wasn't bringing a date, it was just a friend. Nobody was buying it.

                Fucking Harry.

                John would be lying though if he said he wasn't at least a bit excited for tonight. It would be his first holiday dinner with his family since coming back from Afghanistan. He hadn't seen his little brother in what felt like years. He talked to Harry on a regular basis, but keeping in contact with his brother had been a bit more difficult considering the age gap. He was a bit indifferent about seeing his parents. Christmas Eve dinners had a sort of rhythm to them, though. They'd enjoy a bit of chit chat, sit down to dinner, afterwards make sure Harry didn't get completely shitfaced on eggnog, and after she was put to bed he'd do a bit of hugs and kisses and take a cab back to his flat.

                Sherlock's presence would, undoubtedly, make things a bit bumpier. There wasn't much that John could do. He wasn't about to ditch Sherlock and make him spend Christmas Eve alone, and missing dinner with his family would summon a level of wrath from his mother that John had only seen a handful of times. Like when he came home from a holiday in Cardiff with a few mates with his tattoo. He'd been eighteen.

                Sherlock seemed rather indifferent to spending the evening with his family. He hadn't commented on the dinner to John besides a simple "what time will the cab arrive?" that morning. He'd actually been a bit preoccupied with his thoughts lately. Probably something to do with that autopsy. It'd hit the news two days later and since then it was like England had crumbled into post apocalyptic chaos. Scotland Yard was apparently an utter mess. They had no leads on the killer or any new information on how a twenty one year old man had died of a heart attack. His picture was never featured in any of the stories, but Sherlock had yapped nonstop about the message.

                If John were being honest, he was a bit frustrated that Dr. Vernon had exhumed a body with Sherlock in the room, but it seemed to have a good effect on him. Sherlock, instead of spending hours shouting about how bored he was or smoking those bloody cigarettes, was hunched over his own notes from the autopsy and pictures he'd copies from Dr. Vernon. It was odd, but Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, so John shrugged it off as a quirk. He just prayed to god that Sherlock wouldn't bring it up at dinner that night.

                John looked down at his shoes with a sigh. Tonight was going to test his patience.

                He heard the Sherlock's bedroom door open and looked up at his tall frame. Sherlock had donned a pair of dark trousers and a lovely maroon oxford shirt, a blazer being shrugged onto his shoulders as John watched. When John first saw it he thought the dark black color would make Sherlock look a bit pasty, but seeing him in it now, he was a bit irritated. Sherlock looked fantastic in that simple black suit with the maroon shirt beneath. His hair, usually a finely crafted mess of curls was slicked back out of his face, making him look a bit older than he was. John supposed he'd done that on purpose. He was shrugging into his overcoat when he saw John's playful scowl.

                "Problem?" he said, straightening his black scarf. Jesus, John thought, how many did he own?

                "Trying to impress my parents, are you?" John teased.

                "Someone's got to, I suppose."

                John fought back a smirk as he stood. Smart arse. "Come on then, don't want to be late," he said glancing down at his watch. The cab would be arriving soon. He took a moment to straighten his own dark blue oxford shirt and royal blue vest before pocketing his mobile, wallet, and keys, and heading down to meet the taxi with Sherlock walking close behind.

* * *

 

                Sherlock didn't exactly know what to expect as the cab rolled to a stop in front of a small, but cozy looking suburban home. It was typical, boring. As he stepped out of the cab Sherlock could only resign himself to the reality that the evening would be awkward at best and infuriatingly dull at worst. John rarely talked about his family and Sherlock could feel the tension rolling off of John after every call with his mum or dad, so perhaps a bit of family drama would be on the menu. Sherlock could only hope so for his own selfish sake.

                He followed John up the walkway toward the front door, bracing himself for the first of what he could only guess would be a slew of awkward introductions. The door swung open before they were even at the knocker. Sherlock didn't see anyone but he definitely heard the shrill squeal of a child.

                Oh. John had mentioned a 'kid brother' but Sherlock had not anticipated that he actually meant a 'kid brother'. A little boy, whose head only came to about Sherlock's hip rushed out of the house and slammed into John, gripping waist with all his might. He was smiling and Sherlock could see that the boy had a few missing teeth. Charming. He had John's same sandy colored hair, and big doe eyes. His nose was a bit different. Slightly narrower.

                "Ohhh, there's my big boy! Jesus what's Mum been feeding you, you've grown so much since I last saw you!" John's smile was nearly contagious. He leaned down and picked up the boy, embracing him in a large bear hug. What was his name? Arthur? Anthony?

                "Who's that?" the boy asked, his voice suddenly small, as his eyes drifted over his older brother's shoulder to fall on Sherlock. Sherlock smiled and hoped it wasn't scary looking.

                John turned with a grin. "That's my friend. His name is Sherlock, want to meet him?"

                Not to Sherlock's surprise the boy shook his head 'no' quickly. But he glanced at John when he heard him chuckle. "Don't worry, Andy. He looks scary, but he's just a big lump, promise. Come on then, why don't you show us inside before we catch a cold?"

                The boy, Andy, scrambled down out of John's arms to the ground and grabbed his brother's hand, pulling him into the warmth of the Watson household. The smell of food and what Sherlock could only describe as 'Watson' filled his nose. The yellow light that tinted the foyer gave the area a smaller feel but it was not cramped one. Sherlock could hear other voices, speaking in soft tones, the sound of some traditional carol playing through the radio was faint from where they stood. Andy led John and Sherlock down the foyer, past a small stairway that Sherlock guessed led to the bedrooms, and one entryway that led into a dining room, to the archway at the entrance of the sitting room.

                Plopped on the center of the sofa was a young woman, John's sister, Sherlock realized. She wore a green turtleneck and a black high-waist skirt. Her stocking clad legs were curled under her and she had a book in her lap and a bored expression on a round face framed with hay color hair. But as they entered the room and she looked up the bored look changed to one of excitement.

                "Someone's caught under the mistletoe!" she said with a cheeky smile, which quickly faded when her eyes fell on Sherlock.

                "Harry," John said with a small sigh, "I told you it wasn't a date."

                "Oh. Well. You weren't kidding were you?" she said, clearly a bit embarrassed. "Harriet Watson, pleased to meet you, and please call me Harry."

                "Sherlock, charmed."

                "Sherlock? I'm guess you're not the favorite?"

                "Harry," John scolded lightly.

                "Oh come off it, Johnny, come hug your big sister." She didn't wait for John to respond, instead she pulled her brother into her arms in a tight embrace.

                "John?" a voice from another room called. Sherlock took a few steps back as an older woman plodded in with an apron around her waist and her slightly peppered hair pulled away from her face in a ponytail. She wiped her hands across the apron, a bit of...something smearing across it, before pulling her son into a tight hug. There was quite a lot of hugging going on and Sherlock found it all a bit bizarre. He was still in primary school the last time he'd hugged his brother.

                John returned the hug, blowing out a puff of air as his mother squeezed him tight, apparently trying to fuse him with herself. She was shorter than John, something Sherlock thought was physically impossible. Seeing John with his mother and siblings all in one frame, Sherlock found himself slightly amused. They all looked nearly exactly alike.

                "My big boy is home, it really is Christmas," she said, finally releasing him. Sherlock could see a bit of red in John's cheeks. How quaint.

                "Harry told us you'd be bringin' a guest." Mrs. Watson sounded much more excited than warranted and Sherlock grimaced a bit.

                "Ah, yes," John said and stepped a bit to the side, motioning for Sherlock to step forward, "mum, this is my friend, Sherlock."

                That Mrs. Watson had been expecting something entirely different from Sherlock was obvious. Her thin brows rose in surprise and she was lost for words for a moment, but managed to force a smile. "Well, it's nice to meet you, love."

                Sherlock shook her hand and worked out a pleasant smile.

                "It's a pleasure, Mrs. Watson. Thank you for welcoming me into your home, it is lovely."

                "Oh, you’re quite welcome. I hope you boys are hungry, supper will be ready in just a wink."

                Mrs. Watson told them to make themselves comfortable and John wasted no time plopping onto the sofa beside Harry. Sherlock followed, sitting at the end beside John. There was idle chit chat. Harry and John were engrossed in conversation that Sherlock was just barely listening to. Andy sat across the room at the small family piano that Sherlock guessed was more for show than playing. The young Watson would chance a glance at him every few moments then shyly look away.

                Deciding it would be better than sitting about bored with nothing to do, Sherlock moved to sit beside the young boy. He genuinely grinned when Andy's eyes widened.

                "May I sit with you?" Sherlock asked, in a voice he hoped would scare the hell out of the boy. He nodded quickly, that head of bright hair shaking and catching the light off the Christmas tree nestled on the corner. It was awkward for a moment as Andy watched Sherlock expectantly. Finally he spoke. "Do you know how to play piano, Andrew?"

                His lips twitched with a smile and he looked away from Sherlock bashfully, but nodded his head all the same. "Mummy has me take lessons, but I dun' like 'em."

                "Why is that?"

                "My teacher is mean."

                "Can't be meaner than me, right?" Sherlock said with a small smile. Andy giggled. He stretched his small fingers across the keys, still too small to allow for comfortable playing. Sherlock realized that John must've looked just like this at Andy's age. Small, a bit bony, hair far lighter than it was now, with eyes full of every emotion on the spectrum. Andrew was cute.

                Dear god, had the word 'cute' just crossed his mind? When beating had his vocabulary been subject to behind his back? He'd have to have words with John later about that. Sherlock chanced a glance over his shoulder at his...friend? Sounded accurate enough. John was listening intently to something his twin was saying, hands moving excitedly. She'd just said something that John apparently found hilarious and exploded in giggles, doubling over and holding his side. John had a nice laugh. It lit up his body like the sun lit the day.

                Sherlock could smell the mild tension between John and his mother, and he was sure there would be even more between John and his father, whenever he made an appearance. But Sherlock could see how much John had missed just being here, missed the holidays with family, missed silly Christmas decorations and a tree that shed those bloody needles everywhere. The silly, sentimental man loved Christmas.

                Sherlock hadn't felt guilty about not being able to find a gift for the man until now. He _had_ tried his hardest to find John a gift that was suitable. Something not dull but not over the top. He'd come up empty-handed. Sherlock had finally, in a fit of frustration, slid John's laptop across the floor and elicited a very inelegant groan of annoyance. A lecture from John about boundaries followed.

                Well, he supposed he'd try to make it up to him.

                "Would you like to play with me, Andrew?"

                Andy's eyes lit up with excitement and Sherlock was drowned under a litany of yeses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Boo Bears! Long time no see! So sorry it took so long. I've been sifting through a lot of personal bullshit going on in my life. I'm uploading it at 4:30am and I'm beyond exhausted so no long winded notes from me. This time. Just hope you enjoyed it, and remember
> 
> YOUR REVIEWS SUSTAIN ME!


	10. Chapter 10

Harry was in the middle of a very animated story about one of her UNI professors when music interrupted her and caused both the Watson twins to look over at the piano. John couldn't remember living in this house without it being there. He remembered having to take lessons as a kid and hating it. He'd never had an ear for music. Harry had escaped the awful piano lessons in lieu of ballet, which she'd hated just marginally less than John hated the piano. Andy was taking lessons now, poor thing. The Watson children had never heard a tune flowing out of the old piano. Not without a slew of wrong notes or an awkward and incorrect rhythm. So when a very lovely rendition of Ave Maria began to fill the air of the Watson household everything paused.

                It sounded how velvet felt. Warm and soft. Lush. Full. Dark. John knew it was a silly thought, but it was all that crossed his very blank mind as he watched Sherlock's back arch and bounce, exaggerating the beats so Andy, with his much smaller arms and fingers, could keep up.

                Andy turned to look up at Sherlock and John caught a glimpse of the boy's wide, toothy smile. It was apparently contagious because John could feel his mouth turn up and even saw Sherlock's cheeks pull tight in smaller grin.

                "Careful, Johnny, you're gawking," Harry said, nudging John with a grin.

                John decided not to say anything. Especially since he had no clue what to say to that. He really had been gawking. Who could blame him though? Watching Sherlock play was rather fun, the way he bounced a bit to help Andy keep time, his long, pale fingers dancing across old yellowing keys, that black slicked back hair catching the lighting and shining a little bit. It was beautiful.

                After a few more measures Andy and Sherlock reached the end of the piece which was met with a small round of applause.

                "Oh," said a man's slightly surprised voice, "that was lovely, wasn't it?"

                All eyes turned to focus on the very tall, very tired looking Wilbur Watson leaning against the kitchen doorframe with a small glass of scotch in his hand. John felt his body tense seeing his father. John and Wilbur did not have a bad relationship by any means, though John couldn't say he always enjoyed the man's company.

                Wilbur Watson had a very particular air about him. He commanded respect and formality to the point that it nearly felt like walking on eggshells to be around for long. John had not gotten his height from his father's side of the family. Wilbur towered over most people and used it to manipulate and intimidate people when he saw fit.

                Wilbur's blue eyes moved to meet John's and he gave a bland smile, "It's nice to have you home."

                _So goddamn cordial about every goddamn thing,_ John thought, already annoyed. "It's nice to be home."

                "Who's our guest?"

                John and Sherlock stood synchronously and both moved to stand before Wilbur. As introductions were exchanged John could see his father breaking Sherlock apart in his head. A sneer here at the name, a raised eyebrow at "my friend". He was sure Sherlock could see it too.

                "A friend? I don't know that John's ever mentioned you to us," Wilbur said with a bored smile.

                Sherlock's head cocked a bit and John bit his lip, hoping Sherlock tried to keep his smart remarks to a minimum. "I suppose I'm a rather new friend, Mr. Watson."

                John breathed out a relieved sigh when he heard his mum's voice call from the dining room that dinner was served. He said a small prayer, hoping that these two men would keep it together.

* * *

                Sherlock stroked a finger down the stem of his wine glass with a bored expression. The dinner conversation was disappointingly dull, consisting mostly of Harry talking about her classes and Mrs. Watson catching John up on neighborhood gossip. Mr. Watson, _"Wilbur, I insist,"_ hadn't said a word since their interaction in the sitting room. Sherlock had been chancing glances at the odd man between bites of roast.

                John however seemed completely enthralled in whatever nonsense that Mrs. Rogers from Tully Lane was recently involved it. He was smiling and nodding and asking questions and it was bizarre. He and John didn't exactly live a very exciting life together, but he was sure they'd never discussed something as mundane as _Mrs. Rogers from Tully Lane._

                "Alice, don't talk the boy's ear off, he doesn't care," Wilbur said suddenly, stopping his wife midsentence. His wife blushed, a bit embarrassed. Sherlock felt John tense beside him and he looked across the table at Wilbur. He was a classic narcissist, manipulative, used to getting his way and being listened to. Sherlock wasn't sure why but he sincerely wanted to find something awful about this man, like that he was having an affair, or several, or that he was a drug trafficker. But he didn't see anything of the sort.

                "So Sherlock," he began, stabbing a bit too forcefully into his roast and cutting a bite sized piece, "how'd you and John meet? Do you go to UNI together?"

                He was about to respond when John stuttered next to him, "Sherlock's j-"

                "John," Wilbur said, his voice suddenly darker than before. The tone made John's mouth snap shut. "I was speaking to our guest. I'm sure he's capable of answering for himself."

                Wilbur turned to Sherlock again, an unfriendly smile on his lips. "Please excuse him."

                Sherlock returned the cold smile. He was well versed in this little game that Wilbur Watson was trying to play.

                "No," he said finally. "I don't go to UNI with John, we met at a park actually," Sherlock finished with a chuckle that was meant to sound amused.

                "Oh, really? How quaint."

                "Quaint indeed."

                There was a moment of silence and Sherlock looked at John who appeared to be  trying to crawl out of his own skin.

                "I'm happy to have you for dinner, Sherlock, but why aren't you with _your_ family this evening?"

                "Dad," John said in a low voice, a warning. Sherlock gave an infinitesimally small smile of thanks.

                "John, do not interrupt me again," Wilbur said. And with that Sherlock's smile died immediately. He looked about the table first at Mrs. Watson who was avidly avoiding meeting Sherlock's eyes, then Harry who was in the middle of pouring herself a second (third?) glass of wine. Lastly, Sherlock looked down at Andy, who sat beside Harry opposite him. He was looking down at his feet with an embarrassed expression. The boy's eyes darted up to meet Sherlock's briefly in an expression that very clearly said "sorry".

                "I am not particularly close with my family."

                "Really? How strange. Why is that?"

                "Wilbur," Mrs. Watson said with a nervous smile, "that's rather rude isn't it?" Her thin hands wrung tight around her napkin. Wilbur looked up across the table at his wife for a moment, as if contemplating something very complex when his lips broke into a very fake smile and he turned back to Sherlock.

                "Alice is right, please excuse me."

                Sherlock sat back in his chair and gave a tight smile. "No need. I have not seen my family in a long time."

                He could see John turn to look at him in his peripheral.

                "What a shame. Why not?"

                "Why is your family afraid of you, Mr. Watson?"

                All sound came to a halt in the Watson household. There was no breathing, no clinking of forks or knives against china, no sound of cold December wind blowing through the house even though they all knew it was drafty.

                "Beg your pardon?" Wilbur said in a half laugh.

                "It is because you're abusive? Not physically, of course. That's not right. But verbally yes? Of course yes. You tell your twenty-two year old son to be quiet and he listens like a child. You interrupt your wife, who is kneading that into dreadful wrinkles. Harriet drinks to be more amiable and make it through dinners with you. Andrew hasn't said a single word since sitting at the table. Bit odd for a five year old to be so quiet, isn't it? So yes, verbal abuse fits quite well doesn't it?"

                There was a bit of shuffling across the table as Harry stood on unsteady feet to take Andy upstairs to bed and away from the scene that was about to unfold. No one spoke as the two quickly made their way out of the room to the stairwell.

                "Andrew," Sherlock, said, turning around to see Harry halfway up the stairs with a silently crying little Watson in her arms, "it was lovely to meet you."

                The boy didn't smile, but waved a small hand as Harry continued up to the boy's room.

                When they were out of earshot Wilbur finally spoke. "How dare you! What makes you think you can come into my home and accuse me of such things? Who in the hell do you think you are?"

                Wilbur looked like a beet when he was angry and for a quick moment that make Sherlock chuckle. And that made the vein in Wilbur's forehead swell in rage.

                "Didn't your father teach about respect?"

                "My father," Sherlock said with a laugh, "the only thing my father taught me was how to splatter my grey matter from one wall to the other."

                John gave a start beside him and placed a warm hand on Sherlock's knee. "Sherlock..."

                "What is it then?" Wilbur said, throwing his silverware down on his plate, the clatter making Mrs. Watson jump. "Are you two fucking? Turned my son into a fairy?"

                "Oi!" John said, pushing himself away from the table to stand and glare at his father beside him. "It's not any of your damn business and I'll not let you talk to Sherlock like that."

                To say that Sherlock was taken aback by John's sudden outburst was a bit kind. Sherlock stared a bit wide-eyed up at John who was far too preoccupied with Wilbur to see his expression.

                "You'll not _let_ me?" Wilbur asked condescendingly as he stood. He was just taller than Sherlock and so he completely dwarfed his son.

                "No, I won't. Sherlock is my friend and I'm not going let a twat like you," the rest of John's sentence was snipped off the sound of Wilbur's hand connecting with John's face. The loud THWAP echoed through the house and John stumbled for footing before catching himself on the back of his chair.

                Mrs. Watson gave a small cry and went to tend to her son. John's cheek was bright red, but the skin wasn't broken. "Wilbur!" she said, turning to look at her husband in shock. When he said nothing she turned back to John, inspecting his cheek.

                "Is he living with you?" Wilbur asked panting.

                To Sherlock's surprise, both he and John responded in unison, "yes."

                Wilbur sat back down, pick up his knife and fork, setting to work on cutting a stalk of asparagus into smaller pieces. Sherlock watched him drag it through a bit of the juices that had leaked out of his roast before popping it into his mouth. The man chewed slowly, as if he had to constantly remind himself how to do so.

                Finally he said "Get out."

                Exactly twelve minutes and fourteen seconds later, after John had given his mother and Harry goodbye hugs and snuck upstairs to place a small parcel on the foot of his sleeping little brother's bed, he and Sherlock were walking out the door with a bottle of homemade eggnog in John's hand.

                Wilbur Watson was still chewing asparagus at the head of the table when they left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Dearies! Sorry for such a small chapter update. I've stayed up all night writing the update, it's currently 6:50am. I like to complain. Sorry. I had originally intended to have the chapter much longer, but I found that this was a better place to cut off the chapter. It makes a bit more sense, structurally. Again, sorry that it took so goddamn long for me to update. I hope you enjoy it. I'll get right on writing the next chapter, which you guys will LOVE.
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> And remember YOUR REVIEWS SUSTAIN ME!


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